First Snow
by Riddelly
Summary: John works to recover from the gruesome death of his girlfriend, Sarah, while Sherlock grapples with coming to terms with a hidden truth he revealed to Moriarty concerning just how he feels about his flatmate. Sequel to "Crystal Cold." S/J.
1. 1

**A/N** _Well, I've finally done it- I've decided to start posting the sequel to "Crystal Cold." c: Yay! I'm not as happy with this complete work as I was with the original, but I still like it, and lots of you wanted to see this, so... ta-da? The S/J gets a lot more real in this than in the first story (which, if you haven't read, I highly suggest you go check out now so that you aren't completely lost), but it's still pretty light and very gradual. There isn't much else to say, really- but please do review!_

**Rated T** _for violent references, mild language, and snogging_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

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><p>[<em>110_]

John Watson had spent a lot of time in hospitals over the course of his life, being a medical doctor, but that didn't mean that he wasn't allowed to hate them. It was a deep disgust at which he now regarded the massive, overly sanitary buildings, something that could only really sink into a person after they'd been confined to them for an extended amount of time. The stinging scent of too many cleaning supplies would become a constant, as well as the monochromatic white-and-gray tones that seemed to fill all of the space, contrasting only with workers' sickeningly turquoise scrubs.

And yet, despite all the work towards keeping the place clean, it couldn't manage to shake off the fact that it was, quite simply, a realm for the sick. Coughs resonated through every room, spreading from others like the contagious germs against which such a fierce war constantly raged, as did the sobs of relatives that came only with the worst of news. It made John uncomfortable. He didn't belong here. He was far from fatally afflicted- in fact, the injury that he had now, a bullet wound, was something he'd experienced before, in practically the exact same location. That first time, he'd been shot in Afghanistan, as a soldier.

This round was a bit different. Well, notably different. He'd been shot by an incredibly dangerous and still-at-large psychopath, in a walk-in freezer at Davidston Farms Preparation Facility, a meat factory just a few streets away from the Baker Street home that he shared with the third man to be in the freezer at that time: Sherlock Holmes, the world's one and only consulting detective, and also, John had reason to believe, Europe's biggest snob. Possibly Earth's. He- most likely- wouldn't have been injured at all had Sherlock had not decided impulsively to stalk off over a small argument that had happened to flare between the two of them. Frustration was understandable, but whipping around and abandoning John to cope with an armed madman that would surely be appearing at any moment... well, that was just a little extreme.

Of course, immediately after Moriarty _had _shot John, Sherlock had come back, and, well, gotten them both out single-handedly.

_Still. _

If he was going to deal out gratitude, John might as well thank Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan of Scotland Yard just as much. If not for Lestrade's planning and Donovan's surprising role in leading the team, they probably wouldn't be any farther than if Sherlock hadn't made it to John in time. But as things were, both of them had escaped, and the worst of the deal was this stupidly long time in the hospital.

...No.

No, that wasn't true, and John knew it, as much as he wanted to avoid the thought.

Sarah. Sarah was the absolute worst part of it all, but everything about any memory of her was so horribly painful, a thousand times worse than the gunshot in his shoulder, worse than... well, most anything he could imagine. Practically more than he could comprehend. It was a numb agony, a sort of hollow sensation, as if fully embracing it would literally be beyond his capacity. Unimaginable, and yet, for that reason, not entirely there. It took over every little fragment of his emotional capacity, and more beyond that. Sometimes, it seemed like he just couldn't keep going like this. It was impossible to hold together physically.

But he did, because he had to. While one part of his mind was constantly a storm of denial and utter confusion, of pure pain, the rest forced itself to keep going, to keep moving on. John didn't have a choice. He had a life outside of Sarah, a life before her, and would have one after. That was what he constantly told himself, since it was pretty much the only thing he had to hold onto at this point.

_Don't be stupid, _he chided himself as that thought surfaced for the millionth time. He had everything to hold onto. His sister Harry, for one, his job- the one that Sarah had given him... and Sherlock. Of course, he had Sherlock. For now. Really, it was amazing that the detective was still alive. He'd been through countless adventures of a similar type, but he'd gotten through just fine.

Sarah, on the other hand, hadn't even lasted for one...

Why? Why did everything always manage to come back to her? His mind had been like this, spiraling in endless loops, for the majority of the three weeks he'd been hospitalized. He'd be getting out the following Saturday, but, truly, it was getting hard to believe that he wouldn't be entirely insane by then. An attempt at walking had occurred exactly twice, to near-disastrous results. It wasn't so much the physical injury, he thought, as the emotional one.

_Get over it. _Those were the words echoing through his skull day and night, incessant, taunting. _Get over it. Get over it. You've been in the war, you've seen people die... so many. Even more since you came back to London. This shouldn't be any worse than those._

_You're thinking like Sherlock._

Yes, that was the sort of attitude that his flat mate would take on. _People die every day, good people. What makes her so much better?_

Well, John may not be any sort of psychological expert, but he knew himself well enough. And therefore he was all too aware of the fact that, at the moment, he was utterly devastated. Whether or not it was reasonable to feel so, he did. _I just do. Wish it wasn't that way, but it is. _

_Get over it._

Why was it so hard to just go along with those three words?

Presently, he sighed, relaxing back into the pillows on his bed. He was due to take an assisted walk around the building in ten minutes or so, and it would be nice to give his legs a stretch. His whole body seemed to be heavy with disuse lately, and he could only imagine how disgusted Sherlock would be when he finally returned to Baker Street, only to be completely wiped physically. How long would it be until he was capable, both in body and mind, of jumping back into the world of crime? It seemed leagues away, like some far-fetched dream that he could only half remember. Part of a different life.

Sometimes- like now- Sherlock seemed to be no more than part of that dream as well. He'd visited John a grand total of one time, and it had only lasted for a quarter hour or so. A few hundred seconds of half-awkward relief on both of their parts that they'd actually escaped the freezer alive, stumbling moments during which neither of them knew whether or not to mention Sarah. It was bizarre. John supposed that people would be handing out their condolences to him, meaningless apologies and hasty, falsely regretful murmurs. He was one of _them _now, one of those people who'd lost someone close to them. Would people start avoiding him, out of worry that they wouldn't act sensitive enough? Was that what Sherlock was doing? He still felt like the same John Watson. He didn't need- or want- special treatment. In fact, someone to talk to would be wonderful. Harry was in America at the moment, visiting one of their cousins in New York, but she'd phoned with the news that she'd be there for him in a few days. That was something, but she still wasn't quite what he was looking for.

If Sherlock would listen-

But that thought was so ridiculous that he cast it from his mind without another thought. Sherlock _wouldn't _listen. It wasn't his fault, he just wasn't the type of person to do that sort of thing. Not one for comforting. Why should he be? He was, after all, a self-proclaimed sociopath who treated death as though it were no more significant than a paper cut. He had better things to do than listen to John's misery. Much better things to do.

He'd just have to wait for Harry. A few days wasn't long, after all. He was a soldier. He could cope.

The door to his little, private room- they'd probably made it that way for mourning purposes or something of the like- snapped open just then, and an energetic young nurse with red hair in a sloppy ponytail came near-bounding in.

"Mr.- oh, sorry- _Dr. _Watson," she greeted him brightly. "I'm Daisy Rutherford, I'll be watching your back- well, your shoulder"- She grinned there- "on our little corridor stroll today."

Daisy was all too appropriate of a name for her. She was certainly sunny, and spoke in short, bouncy little bursts. Judging by her enthusiasm and the fact that he hadn't seen her before, she was probably new to the tedious job of nursing...

_That's how Sherlock thinks._

An odd mixture of anxiety and fondness washed over him at that thought, but he shoved it down, instead smiling tightly at her. "Great." That was the most he could manage lately- brief, one- or two-word responses. The most he could manage without... well... he wasn't sure what would happen if he were to try to string together multiple sentences. Probably something disastrous, though. Which was why he avoided it. That seemed to be the best method, lately. Prevention. It was soothing to think that he could completely stop something from happening if he focused himself the right way.

She helped him out of the bed and shakily onto the ground. His shoulder twinged, but he tried to put it aside, instead concentrating on moving forward. He wasn't even sure why they felt the need to give him an escort. It wasn't like his leg was wounded, after all. Not even to a psychosomatic degree this time around; the limp had vanished completely a while ago, and his therapy sessions had ended, as well. He hadn't felt the need for them anymore, not since he had a life of action back. A life with Sherlock.

Of course, Sarah's death had changed everything. He might be seeing Ella again quite soon.

Daisy held the door open for him as he leaned into the hallway, checking up and down for anyone he could crash into. On sighting an elderly couple, presumably visitors, shuffling along, he pulled back into his room, waiting for them to pass. Again: prevention. It worked wonders.

Once the coast was clear, John stepped into the wide, carpeted area. Abstract paintings hung on the pale turquoise walls, most seeming to be bubbly, swirly, and blue, which created a sort of oceanic effect. It was obviously supposed to be calming, but it reminded him of the ice. Ice, and endless stacks of frosted packages of bacon, each with the same cheery image of a cartoon cow on it. That cow, as innocent and friendly as it was meant to appear, was one of the most terrifying things he could picture at the moment. It brought too much back to the surface of his mind, too much that he had to struggle to force back down.

"We're just going to go for about twenty minutes," Daisy Rutherford announced in a voice that seemed a few notches louder than necessary, looking at her watch. "Don't want to strain things too badly. And remember, it's good to move your arms a little as we go- but don't stretch or flex- that could keep you in here for a lot longer if it reopens anything. And as big of a pleasure as that would be for us, I'm sure that you'd rather return to your normal life, wouldn't you?" Her teeth shone brilliantly white.

Pleasure. Sure. Even considering himself slightly more than a burden, John really couldn't bring himself to believe that he was in any way an asset to the poor hospital workers. They probably argued about who got to go on shift to bring food to him or check the bullet wound. All those who did certainly seemed awkward, and got their job done as quickly and wordlessly as possible. Things didn't used to be like that. People actually used to _like _him. But now... well, it was probably the Sarah thing again. He was a different kind of person now. Apparently. He didn't really feel like a person at all, but... well...

_Get over it. _

The constant words again, always pounding away inside his head. Sometimes, it seems like they were never really gone, but instead a rhythm now as familiar as his heartbeat, repeating ceaselessly until it was unnoticed. _Get over it, get over it, get over it. _Meaningless sounds, as lacking of conscious instruction as the steps he was now taking, down the hall, or the part of his brain receiving Daisy's constant babble about her other patients, her family life... seemingly anything to keep him occupied. She didn't seem to register that he wasn't paying the slightest fragment of attention.

"So then Violet tells me that I'm not even getting _paid _for the overtime work, which is, of course, ridiculous- though I'm not complaining- I _love _getting to work with patients," she gushed. "Though they're not all as charming as you, I daresay."

He glanced sideways at her, trying to keep his inner disbelief from spreading onto his face. If his lack of any reaction whatsoever to her, well, existence was _charming, _then he certainly didn't want to think about what the others she worked with were like. Comatose, perhaps?

This struck him as rather funny, and he had to stifle a small laugh, though, of course, the small step towards amusement only made the return of the throbbing depression a thousand times worse. His throat tightened, and he had to shift his mind to new waters, tracing the wavy turquoise pattern etched onto the hall's carpeting with his eyes. It was soothing after a while, and he managed to relax back into the constant state of numbness that he was used to.

_Just let me go home. The stupid shoulder's fine. _

_Just let me see Sherlock._

_Please._

Because that was the thing. He needed _someone. _Who it was didn't really seem to matter at this point, as long as it was someone other than yet another horrible, overenthusiastic nurse- or worse yet, one who preferred not to acknowledge him at all. He didn't want to be treated as 'the patient,' or 'the victim.' Just as himself. It didn't seem like too high an order.

Daisy's chatter continued for the next ten minutes, before he was returned to his bed, feeling, if anything, worse than before. She left with good wishes and a promise that he'd be out of the hospital in a week. Then he was left alone again, with only the switched-off TV and the words.

The horrible, constant, unforgiving words...

_Get over it. _


	2. 2

**A/N** _Part twoooo! Not much to say here, really. Please revieeeew!_

**Thanks to** _Natalie Nallareet, SylviaGriffin3, iliveinatardis, and HopeCoppice_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

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><p>[<em>210_]

"Good news today, Dr. Watson!"

He looked up dully, wondering if any news could really be _good. _Nothing seemed all that good right now, unless perhaps Harry had come early, or Sherlock had thought to pay a visit. But the likeliness of either of these seemed less than zero. He considered asking just what this oh-so-great news was, then deemed such an action pointless. This particular woman- was she a doctor? A nurse? He couldn't remember her name, anyhow- would tell him anyways.

"After consulting your improvement rate, we've decided that you can be let out a few days early!"

John's eyes widened. Now, there was something that he hadn't expected. "Great," he found himself saying, straightening his posture slightly. His shoulder throbbed, but not nearly as painfully as it had before. He _was _recovering, he supposed. That was good.

"Isn't it?" she practically crowed in delight. She surely must have been faking some of it; no one was naturally this enthusiastic. She was practically worse than Daisy. Was everyone so peppy at this hospital? Perhaps it was some sort of job requirement. _And remember, don't let your patients know how much you hate your job! _"We just have some paperwork to finish up, and then you'll be able to head home! Is there someone you want to call to come and assist you, or will you be able to manage a taxi yourself?"

The notion of asking Mrs. Hudson to come flickered briefly in his mind. She'd certainly be all too willing to do so, yet... he wasn't sure that he wanted her fawning over him. Not yet. Not before he saw Sherlock again. "I'll be fine myself, thanks."

"Excellent. I'll be right with you, then, dear."

_Dear? _he thought, slightly alarmed by this rather over-the-top maternal endearment. He watched her bustle out of the room, then exhaled heavily, his gaze shifting back to the light green-painted ceiling, where it typically rested. Coughing sounded from a few rooms down, and a creak of wheels as a cart was pushed along through the hallway. Otherwise, it was absolutely silent. He did feel well enough to go back, he supposed.

_And you'll get to see Sherlock._

That was probably the happiest thing he could imagine right now, but it was more complicated than that, layered with uncertainty. He'd get to see Sherlock, yes, but would Sherlock be happy to see him? It was hard to imagine that he would. After all, he hadn't come to the hospital more than that once in the whole stay. A slight sickness rocked in John's stomach as he imagined Sherlock avoiding him for a reason he wouldn't mention. Was it that stupid thing again, with Sarah- did the detective think that John didn't _want _him along? That he wanted... privacy or something so that he could mourn her? That wasn't at all what he needed. But, of course, leave it to Sherlock to shy off at the prospect of facing emotion.

A few minutes later, the gray-haired nurse returned, still smiling. "All right, we're all ready to go! You're completely discharged, but we'd like to recommend..." She went on about the various medicines and treatments that he should keep administering, and he only half-listened. Typically, he'd want to hear as much as she'd tell him, but his mind had been odd lately, loose, making it difficult to pay any attention to her at all.

"...You got all that?"

He nodded silently, and she proceeded to help him out of the bed, though they probably both knew that he didn't need it. He didn't look back as the door shut behind him, knowing that the little room hardly contained memories worth keeping. Neither did the hallway that he must have walked down a hundred times in the few weeks-long stay, with all of its stupid abstract paintings. The reception area, too, seemed to be full of bad air, and he was glad to reach the glass doors that opened onto the busy street. _Only a few more minutes now, _he told himself. _Only a few more minutes and you'll get to see Sherlock. _

"Good luck, Dr. Watson!" the nurse called to him cheerfully as she waved him out the doors.

He nodded, clutching the plastic folder of paperwork that she'd given to him. The whole thing had been done rather hastily, but she'd made sure to let him know that all contact information and medical records were contained in it, to "avoid any confusion." John already knew that he wouldn't be looking in the folder once. His shoulder felt fine, and he remembered enough of the medicines he'd been instructed to take that he wouldn't have to consult the list. It would sit somewhere in the flat, gathering dust, simply because he wouldn't feel confident enough to throw it away. There seemed to be a lot of things lately that he didn't have the confidence for, really.

He hailed a taxi cab and climbed in, muttering the address that he knew all too well and leaning back against the seat. _Soon, _he repeated to himself, _soon, soon, soon._

Would Sherlock even be there? He might be at the Yard. Surely he wouldn't be _waiting _for John, so there was no reason why he should be home. Stress began to seep into John's mind at the thought of resuming his old life. There was so much to be done- he'd have to get his job back, for one. Sherlock would probably want help on whatever cases he might currently be pursuing. That was for sure- John wouldn't be excused from anything Sherlock expected him to do just because of Sarah.

It might actually be good, though, to get out and start doing things again. Perhaps it would take his mind off of things. Off of... her.

_Get over it._

The cab drew to a halt, and his stomach lurched. _Nothing to worry about, _he insisted steadily to himself as he handed payment to the driver and pulled himself out, into the sunlight. There it was- the green painted door with the shining brass number on it: _221B. _Such a familiar sight... now, it seemed like something out of a different life entirely. The growl of an engine sounded behind him as the cab pulled away, and then there was nowhere to go but forward.

Opening the door was difficult, as was stepping inside, pulling his coat off, ascending the stairs. But he didn't stop, didn't hesitate, just moved forward, fingers tight around the folder of papers. There was the door, the black-and-white bamboo wallpaper around it... he twisted the knob and glanced in.

There he was.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair by the fireplace, disinterestedly scanning a newspaper, his pale eyes seemingly intent on the lines of text and his fingers running along the handle of an empty coffee mug. He looked, well, relaxed. At home. Not like he was thinking hard about anything, almost... normal. John wished for a half-instant that he could preserve that moment, just watch his flat mate, but, of course, that couldn't happen. Already, Sherlock was looking up, dark eyebrows rising in surprise, letting the top of the paper droop. He didn't make any motion towards rising, but instead observed from his seat.

"John- I thought you weren't getting out of the hospital for another few days?"

His _voice. _It was... John hadn't realized just how much he'd missed it. Deep, even, self-assured... something twisted inside of him, and an entirely foreign thought floated to the surface of his mind. _At least he wasn't the one to die. _What was that supposed to mean? Of course- why would he even... compare them...

"Yeah," John found himself saying. "I got discharged early. Apparently they thought it was some sort of treat."

They watched each other for a few seconds, tension humming in the air between them. He took the opportunity to set the folder down on the couch, busying himself with the motion and straightening it out a little more than necessary before turning back to face Sherlock.

"Why didn't you ever come?" he asked simply.

"What?"

That expression... like such an expectation was ridiculous somehow. "I was in the hospital for weeks, Sherlock, _weeks, _and you stopped by to see me exactly once. Mike and Bill visited, even Lestrade at one point. Mrs. Hudson would have if she could have, I'm sure. But you- you didn't even... once you knew I was alive... was that enough? As long as your... _assistant _wasn't _dead, _nothing else mattered. Did you never _once _stop to think just how much I've been going through? I mean- for God's sake, you're my... my... flat mate." He stumbled over the last few words, then hesitated, confused. What had he been about to say? Something stupid, like 'best friend' or 'partner in crime.' It was true, though, that their relationship was anything but normal. The two of them had been through a lot more together than the average duo who happened to share housing.

"It didn't seem necessary," Sherlock muttered in his usual short manner. Oddly, though, he didn't seem to want to meet John's eyes all of a sudden, instead glancing over at the mantelpiece. Guilty? Less than likely. He probably just wanted to be somewhere else.

"...Of course it didn't." Exhaling slowly, the doctor looked around the flat, noting that it seemed to be several degrees messier than before, and that a bad smell was coming from the direction of the microwave, around which a pale smoke seemed to linger. "See that you didn't bother cleaning up after yourself..." He halfheartedly picked up a random book from the table, looked around the room for a better place to put it, then set it back down with a sigh. He felt too tired to do anything. Well, not _tired, _exactly, just exhausted. Weary. Yes, weary. That was a good way to describe how he felt at the moment.

"I told you. Didn't expect you to be back so soon."

John raised his eyebrows, not even looking in Sherlock's direction. "Yeah, like I should believe that it would've been any different if you had."

"Maybe it would have."

"Yeah, _maybe. _I somehow doubt it, though."

"Believe, doubt... whatever suits you." Sherlock directed his attention towards the newspaper once more, his speech capacity clearly exhausted for a moment. Shaking his head at nothing, John made his way to his own armchair, carelessly swept a stack of papers off of it, and sat down. The sheets of paper swirled around in the still air before coasting silently to the ground.

"Nothing on, I presume?"

"Moriarty has chosen to remain irritatingly silent, and the rest of the criminal world is following his example."

"Glad you haven't taken to shooting the walls again."

"Oh, it's only a matter of time..."

John hesitated. They both knew the question that they were avoiding, that seemed to be taboo for no discernible reason. _What happened? What happened in the freezer? _For the obvious reasons, he himself couldn't remember anything beyond finding Sarah's body and being shot. He knew, of course, that Sherlock had dragged him out somehow, and that Donovan and an assortment of other policemen were there, too. But that bullet hadn't been fired from nothing. Moriarty had been there as well, which meant that he and Sherlock must have had some sort of confrontation. And he was itching so badly to know what that confrontation involved that it hurt.

"Well... so, what exactly... happened? You know... that night."

"You got shot. Moriarty fooled around long enough for me to get us out alive." He shook nonexistent wrinkles out of the newspaper, pulling it farther up to hide more of his face. This struck John as odd, but he ignored it for the time being.

"Details?"

"Incidentally, I don't much care to revisit that memory at the moment. Why don't you make yourself useful and see if Lestrade's emailed you? I know that thing he does, where he tries to get you to subtly mention something, like I can't tell he's just trying to look like he isn't begging for help..."

Well, that was that, John supposed. If Sherlock didn't feel like explaining things any more thoroughly than that, he couldn't do anything about it. The man was stubborn. Still, that didn't mean he was just going to immediately return to the old routine of doing everything he was asked- no, _instructed _to. Sherlock wasn't the type to expect a 'mourning period' from, but still. He had the right to refuse.

"Check it yourself. You know my password," he replied tiredly, sinking onto the couch with a long sigh. Suddenly, it struck him how... well... happy, almost, he was to be home. He hadn't realized just how much he'd missed Baker Street until now.

Even Sherlock's annoyed grumble at his refusal was welcome. John felt vaguely overwhelmed by an emotion that was... well... undeniably _positive. _It felt odd, like he didn't know what do to with it. It had been so may hours, days, weeks since he'd had reason to feel happy that now it was... foreign. Of course, he couldn't remain elated for very long before she came back to him- her face, her voice, the way she laughed...

_She's dead now. Dead. She's dead. So much of her life was left... and now she'll never be able to experience it. Never. Because of you._

_Get over it._

He blinked, bringing himself back to the present, and sighed again, this one longer and deeper, before turning his gaze back on Sherlock. The sight of the dark-haired detective soothed him somehow. Made him feel like, someday, things could be all right. It was probably a long, long ways to that day, of course, but... that was all right. He'd pull through somehow. He had to.

That wasn't to say, though, that it wouldn't take a while.


	3. 3

**A/N** _Don't really have anything to say here. Keep the reviews coming! :D_

**Thanks to** _SuperSonicBeatrice_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

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><p>[<em>310_]

John's coming back early resulted in a confusing array of emotions for Sherlock. After all, any emotions of any type were still a foreign thing to him, so a cascade this heavy and complex was naturally rather baffling. It was bizarre, for something not to be under his control- especially when that something was _internal, _and therefore by all rules of logic should be quite easy to hold in place. But, no, these infuriating, newfound _feelings _had to go and be unpredictable, not to mention completely impossible to hold in rein. It wasn't his fault. They were just too complicated.

For starters, there was the guilt. Guilt, to him, was... odd. Out of place. It just didn't feel right. Sherlock Holmes, though he had far more reason to be than most of the population, wasn't a guilty man. He did what needed to be done, and that was that. Nothing lost but injustice, nothing gained but progress. But now, seeing the way that John treated his shoulder, almost like some baby creature that might be injured if he weren't to care for it properly. _It's my fault. _If John had gotten his way, the police would have joined them at the factory, and they would, most likely, both be alive and uninjured now. Sarah had died anyway, so really, what had they gained by going in alone? Nothing but a short sighting of Moriarty, the diamond that the criminal had stolen, and...

Thinking about the third thing was... awkward. Awkwardness- there was another feeling that he couldn't adjust to. He'd never had any reason to feel awkward, after all. He usually had no reason to _feel... _anything.

_Why are these things tying me down all of a sudden?_

He regretted it. He regretted saying what he had to Moriarty, and that was all. There was nothing else to it.

And yet there _was, _because he didn't regret it, not at all. It made him feel more... alive?... than he ever had before. Sort of... daring in a way that his regularly life-threatening work was unable to capture. It was... spiritually...

He internally shook his head. There was no need to find words for his twisted feelings. He already knew that he couldn't categorize them, so why waste time attempting to?

_Because I can't let them go._

That much was true. He _couldn't _let what had happened go, even though the only other person in the universe who had heard what he said was Moriarty. Of course, he wouldn't put it past the psychopath to somehow inform John of what Sherlock had said...

The words tore through his mind suddenly, hot, bright, fierce.

_Because I love him!_

He sucked in a breath, hoping that John, on the couch, wouldn't notice. He couldn't afford for that to happen right now; he was too insecure (it felt wrong to associate that word with himself) to get through a proper conversation at the moment. Just thinking about the freezer occurrence left him feeling shaky and hollow. He didn't want to consider those words, didn't want to explore their true depth. He wasn't even sure what they meant, if he'd used them in the right context. Of course he had no idea what... what love felt like. He had no reason to. But if it was this... this... sensation of complete and utter... well, he didn't have a word for it, which explained why he had decided so rashly to tack this one onto it.

Yes, he was definitely regretting it.

And yet... maybe not.

Confusion had been all too dominant in his life lately. What with having no real work, he couldn't seem to touch on a single subject without it being loaded with mixed feelings. And now that John was here... well, that certainly didn't help.

"I'm going to the Yard," he found himself saying, standing up without willingly commanding his legs to do so. He set the newspaper that he hadn't been reading on the chair and was halfway to the door by the time John looked up.

"What? But..." he trailed off.

"But nothing. Give me one good reason to stay here." Pull on the coat, the scarf... _have to get out of here. Just... out of here. Some fresh air would be nice. _Even as those thoughts flew across the dashboard of his mind, they were colliding with conflicting ones. _You? Fresh air? Since when do _you _need fresh air to operate properly? _He did his best to ignore them.

"Well... I just got back, for one."

"Yes, and you're being even more helpful than usual," he growled scathingly. "I'm going to see what Lestrade has on. He's probably completely stumped by something and just unwilling to tell me. That happens rather often, as I'm sure you know."

He heard John's protests following him out of the room, but didn't take the time to process the individual words. They didn't matter; there wasn't a thing in the world that could stop him from doing this, from getting out of here, away from the stress, the pressure...

_What happened to you? _he asked himself mindlessly as he barged out the door and started down the street in no specific direction. _You used to actually be a reasonable person, and now look at yourself. Torn apart by a man who can't go inside a _freezer _without ending up in the hospital._

_You're a mess._

He attempted to distract himself from these thoughts by hailing a taxi, climbing in. Might as well go where he had told John he was headed. It wasn't like there was anywhere better to be.

Simply because he had nothing better to do, Sherlock pulled out his phone as the cab began to move sluggishly along the crowded street and typed out a quick message to the man he was intending to visit.

_I'm coming by to see if you're hiding anything from me. -SH_

Straightforward enough. He tilted his head lazily to gaze vaguely out the window. There was a mother on the sidewalk, looking rather harassed as she pulled along two chubby children and pushed a stroller with her elbow. Why anyone ever chose to disrupt their lives with kids was certainly a mystery that wasn't as easily solved as some of those that Sherlock had been presented with over the course of his years, not to mention why they actually claimed, after all that, to love them.

There it was again, he thought angrily, that love thing. Was it determined to follow him everywhere? Nearly hissing aloud with frustration, he began rapidly turning his mobile around in his hands, rotating it so that it caught the gleam of sunlight shining from outside the window, glinting as if it was a star itself. The bright glare burned his eyes, but he stared it down determinedly.

_Or that the earth revolves around the sun..._

John's voice, exasperated, softened like the words were only meant for himself...

The beep of the phone was startling enough that it slipped slightly between his fingers, and he fumbled a bit trying to get a firm grasp on it again. Growling under his breath, Sherlock returned his attention to the screen to see that he had one new message.

_Don't you have anything better to do? -GL_

The grumble still in his throat morphed into a soft chuckle. He took one more look out the window, determined their location from the familiar surroundings, and quickly calculated the speed they must be traveling at on average and how much longer it would take to arrive at the Yard.

_Be there in seven minutes. -SH_

This time, the response came fast enough that, luckily, he didn't have enough time to become properly distracted.

_Seven?_

_Six, now. -SH_

_You can stop signing your messages... I know it's you..._

_Don't want to. -SH_

Three minutes, now. He tucked the phone into his pocket, ignoring the beep that signaled a response, and tightened his scarf thoughtlessly. Recently- the last time he'd visited Scotland Yard, in fact, before the freezer incident- he'd somehow forgotten it at Baker Street. And then, in the middle of his conversation with Lestrade, John had burst into the room, garment in his hand, looking a bit worked up and definitely overreacting to the fact that Sherlock had left it behind...

_That look in his eyes- like that delivery was the most important thing in the world, like he didn't want anything more than to make sure that-_

Again. _Again. _All he wanted was John out of his head. Why was it so impossible? Why did every little thing to cross his mind somehow remind him of the invalidated army doctor from Afghanistan whom, upon his arrival, had redefined Sherlock's life?

"We've arrived at your final destination, sir," the cabbie announced from the front seat.

Arrived... final destination... sir. This was definitely someone new to the career; seasoned taxi drivers these days rarely did more than grunt when they'd got where they were headed.

He mindlessly handed over a few pound notes, then stepped out onto the sidewalk and strolled purposefully towards the gleaming silver doors of the police station. They opened easily despite their heaviness, and then he was on his way along the familiar path to Lestrade's office. In moments, he reached it, and pushed open the door without hesitation, ignoring the glare shot his way from the nearby desk belonging to a certain Sally Donovan.

The Detective Inspector was on his cell phone, speaking rapidly with a visible strain on his face and pacing around the desk. He waved vaguely at Sherlock, then redirected his attention to the conversation.

"Yeah, all right, but- look, could you let me go? There's someone I need to talk to."

The response, rather loud in the small, empty room, was in a woman's voice, fast and indignant-sounding.

"All right. I'll try to be home before the kids' bedtime."

More tittering.

"And- yes, all right- I'm sorry, there's been lots going on lately..."

Sherlock tried to focus on the sounds from the other side, making words out of the noise of what he assumed to be Mrs. Lestrade.

"_They miss you, though._"

"And I'll try my hardest to be there on time. Okay?"

"_And we want you to have dinner with the family at least once this week- Abby, stop putting butter in your hair. Dorothy, don't eat butter out of your sister's hair!"_

The DI ran a hand through his graying hair, his dark eyes flickering between Sherlock and his desk. "Okay, I'm going to let you go now. Talk to you soon. Yes, I love you too. Thanks. Bye." He snapped the phone shut with a sigh of relief and sank gratefully into his chair. "Sherlock," he acknowledged. "Here just as you threatened."

"Of course. Nothing could have held me up."

"Such is the way when you find yourself without work," Lestrade acknowledged. "In all honesty, I can't say I know what you're complaining about."

There were a number of signs scattered about his desk and person that suggested he'd been stressed lately. Sherlock acknowledged them all without really thinking about it, letting them slide under his radar as he continued to speak. "Then give me something. The most challenging thing you have. It's probably incredibly simple- go on, you want to, and I know it as well as you."

"This isn't like you," Lestrade remarked evenly, straightening out the keyboard of his desktop computer. "Why are you coming to me? I'm used to having to drag you out of that damned flat by the collar even when you do act somewhat interested. And now you show up at the Yard begging for work. What's with that?"

Sherlock shifted slightly, trying to hide the fact that he was very much aware of this, himself. It was because of John, of course, that everything about his life had been thrown slightly off-kilter, but he wasn't about to say that. "I don't know what you're talking about," he replied instead.

"Yeah... yeah, sure, okay. Well, actually, there's a rather absurd _lack _of crime floating around lately. Everything we're caught up in is trivial, and that's by our standards, not yours. Rather frustrating."

"Especially with your... added pressure from home."

"Yes, that doesn't help." The expression on the policeman's face made it clear that he wasn't going to ask questions about how Sherlock had come to possess such information. Which was good, the detective thought; if Lestrade wasn't able to realize just how loudly the volume of his phone was turned up, it would be practically painful.

"So... nothing?"

"Nothing. Though I don't know why it's such a-"

"Just... leave it," Sherlock advised, already turned back towards the door. "Let me know if there's anything."

"Wait, hang on. Are you expecting me to believe that you came all the way over here just to ask me that, and then give up so easily? Almost like you're trying to deduce something about me from my behavior."

"It's not that. It's just..." Sherlock pushed the door open. "I needed some air."


	4. 4

**A/N** _Tralala~_

**Thanks to** _littlelostsheep_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

><p>[<em>410_]

Sleep was most everything that John lived for lately, so it was only reasonable that he hated getting up more than ever.

Sometimes it seemed as though alarm clock beeps had been intentionally designed to be as infuriatingly intrusive as possible. It was, he supposed, a possibility- how else could people be expected to get up at all? Still, the abrasive, monotonous sounds that grated across his eardrums were unpleasant in just about every imaginable way, especially when he took the time to remember what they signaled.

_Sarah's funeral is today._

It had been postponed quite extensively- _just for me, _John thought hollowly, _so that I could attend- _from the usual date, though a cremation had occurred much earlier on. The thought was like a physical stab to him. _First frozen, then burned. _The only thing left of Sarah now- Sarah Sawyer, _his _Sarah- were ashes. She could be contained in a bag.

His throat and eyes began aching, but he ignored them, instead forcing himself out of the warm fortress that was his bed and glancing blearily at the alarm clock, swiping his hand over the button to shut it off. The funeral- it hurt to think that word- was in three hours. Enough time to shower, get all dressed up, covering his emotions so that no one else would have to see that he was a real person... and, ideally, eat breakfast, though as soon as the thought of trying to stomach something occurred to him, the image of a pile of cold gray ashes flashed once more behind his eyes, and food became instantly repulsive.

It had been well over a month now since the freezer, since he'd... found her... and still, the very thought had a catastrophic effect on him. Was that abnormal? Somehow, his medically trained mind couldn't find an answer to that question even as he searched it vaguely.

_Get over it. _

But, at times like now, such a thing seemed impossible.

John realized that he was sitting up silently in his bed, and slowly rose, going through the familiar motions of showering, dressing, combing his hair out without thinking about them at all. He let his mind float through a misty sort of rift, pleasantly numb, and avoided all thought of the day that awaited him. Maybe he'd be able to stay in this mindless state throughout the whole... event. That would be nice. Of course, it probably wouldn't be so easy once he was actually confronted with whatever held her remains, miserable relatives, speeches about-

He threw the thought aside, cringing away from it. He couldn't allow himself to focus on these things. If that meant cutting out the part of his mind that revolved around Sarah entirely, then so be it. Anything to stop the pain.

Anything.

_Concern. _

_I'm... concerned... for him. _

_Worried about or concerned for?_

Sherlock couldn't quite define the subtle differences between the two expressions, making it impossible to answer the question that he had asked of himself. The thought alone was still alien, even after weeks of living with this new, frighteningly damaged John, of feeling the slight ache in his stomach every time he tried to imagine the other's pain. It was most certainly unpleasant, and he'd been spending as little of time as possible in the flat, even knowing that his constant escapes were both selfish and cowardly. That didn't really matter to him... or, at least, it shouldn't. _But it does. _He didn't want John to be upset, he really, really didn't.

He knew what today was, though, and couldn't take his mind off of it that morning. He still hadn't decided whether or not he himself would be going to the funeral. John had indicated that he was expecting him to, which was the only reason he possibly might. Sherlock had no connections to Sarah- if anything, he'd disliked her, though he _had, _after all, saved her life from a gang of violent Chinese smugglers that one time. Still. Funerals weren't the sort of thing he was used to attending. He'd never been to one, not even that of his parents, and had no idea how he might end up behaving. Of course, people would expect him to be silent and respectful and whatnot, but that just wasn't him. He wasn't a silent or respectful person, and he knew it perfectly well. If he did end up going, he might do everything wrong and actually end up offending John rather than supporting him.

_So just don't go!_

It wasn't that easy, though. Things in general weren't that easy. He used to think they were, before the huge tangle of _feelings _that, apparently, was most people's everyday life had caught up with him. He hated it, utterly detested the whole new dimension that had been added to his mind, but that didn't mean that he could do anything to control it. It seemed to drive him mad, at times.

Happiness. There was an emotion that he'd like to get a taste of someday.

Of course, if things continued along the pattern they'd fallen into lately, he could hardly expect to.

He'd just stay. Stay behind. That was the best option, surely. He didn't _want _to go, after all, really, really didn't. John would probably cope better on his own, and Sherlock wouldn't have to see him as a wreck. That would be... just awful. Only hints of John's inner turmoil had shown through over the past weeks, and the idea of seeing it as a whole was utterly repulsive. It would drive Sherlock mad, not... not being able to help.

_Why should I want to?_

Once again, a question that he had no answer to. Dreadfully common as of late. Dreadfully common, and dreadfully disruptive. He hated them, the questions, absolutely detested them and wished with every fiber of his being that they'd just _leave him the hell alone, _but of course they wouldn't obey. Of course not. Nothing every obeyed him, not really. Apparently, not even his own mind.

It wasn't fair, how quickly three hours could pass. The cab ride was the worst- all the way through, John desperately wished that he could hold onto time, snag his fingers into its intricate lattice and just cling on, even as it tried to push him on his way. There was a theory, he knew, about time being the fourth dimension. He couldn't pretend to understand it perfectly, but it was clear to him that it had something to do with them only being able to move through it in one direction. If he was a four-dimensional creature, would he be able to go backwards right now, to give himself another week until this awful funeral- or even to return to the time before Sarah had... well, before the freezer.

But he wasn't four-dimensional, and he didn't even know if the stupid time theory was accurate. It probably was just a pile of nonsense made up by money-hungry scientists trying to feed knowledge-starved crowds. The human race would never be satisfied with what it had, or so things seemed. Why was that? Why couldn't they just live in the present moment? Just be happy?

_Why can't we just be happy? _

The topic of his thoughts was growing dangerously near _her, _and would have to be set on a different track. Unfortunately, as soon as this came to mind, the taxi halted, and he found himself outside a funeral home that he couldn't read the name of through suddenly blurry vision.

As he paid and thanked the driver, his voice sounded even to him as though he had contracted a sudden, rather bad head cold. _Don't start crying, _he told himself firmly. That was one thing that he hadn't done yet, even through the awful pain he endured daily. His throat would hurt, his eyes would sting, but not a single tear had escaped him since Sarah's death.

_Death. _

The word was hard and heavy in his mind, and he withdrew from it fearfully. It was so blunt, so obtuse, so... _real. _Death, death, death. The more he tried to avoid it echoing through his mind, the more it persisted. Death. _Death. _Repeating over and over until had no meaning, was as empty a drumbeat as _get over it. _

_Death._

_Get over it._

Each phrase contradicting the other, insisting on its impossibility. The tears threatened to appear again, fiercer and more insistent than ever, but he ignored them, straightening his back as he walked through the doors of the funeral home.

There it was, silent, waiting. Sitting on a table draped in some rich black cloth, surrounded by huddles of similarly dressed people, all with ducked heads, many shaking with sobs.

A box.

Just a box.

Small, almost innocent-looking. Wooden, and very plain, though the ruby-like sheen of the polished rosewood was certainly luxurious. It gleamed in the purposely low lighting, and he found himself getting closer, his legs carrying him up to it out of childish curiosity. He caught a glimpse of a neat, serif-lettered engraving- _Sarah Sawyer, _with some dates he didn't need to read below it- before he was backpedaling, a sour taste rising in the back of his throat.

_Dead. Dead. Dead. She's dead, her whole life was cut off, she'll never marry you or anyone else, she'll never have any children, she'll never become a grandparent or go into retirement, she'll never finish that stupid romance novel that she claimed was so good, that she always took a long with her to work, read during breaks... she'll never get the new album by whatever the hell her favorite band was called, the one that was coming out this spring... that dog she had, the little cocker spaniel- what was his name, something like Arnold or Matthew- he doesn't have a mummy anymore, because she's bloody dead. She's dead, and it's my fault, completely and entirely my fault for being stupid enough to have a relationship with her when I'm someone involved with so many dangerous people... you'd think that perhaps it'd be enough for them to just kidnap her the once, tie her to a goddamn chair and threaten her with a bolt through the heart, but no, the worse had to happen- everything, absolutely everything, had to be taken away from her. _

It came back in a huge rush, one that left him breathless even though he hadn't been making and noise. _Get over it _thundered through his mind, growing louder and louder- _getoveritgetoveritgetoverit- _until, suddenly, it was gone.

He couldn't just _get over it. _Not something that hurt this much. Not without allowing himself some sort of time to mourn. Sarah deserved better than being forgotten.

He blinked and refocused on the box, the box which now held a woman that he'd previously felt the heartbeat of, seen the smile and heard the laugh and smelled the breath of. Every physical trace of her was now contained in that little wooden box.

_All of it. _

_In a box._

But Sarah, he knew- the _real _Sarah, her personality, aura, spirit- wasn't in there, not really. She was much farther away, probably much less recognizable... because she was gone. Just gone. He couldn't ever get her back, so why was he trying?

The whole of the funeral was a mess of tears and shaky speeches from the other mourners. John had a vague idea in the back of his mind that he'd been intending to say a little something himself, might even had written it down, but the idea of going up to that little podium and trying to actually _talk _about Sarah seemed impossible. It was hard enough to be here, to think about her. He wanted out. Badly. But such a thing was impossible at the moment, of course. Running away from the building, jumping in a cab, returning to Baker Street... the very prospect was absurd, as much as he wanted to just flee. He'd have to sit through this thing.

But then, after that, it would truly be over.

They moved outside at some point, where a bunch of folding chairs had been set up, to watch the little box be buried. It was sad, he thought, almost pathetic that the headstone was, in fact, larger than the container of what was once her body.

Oh, god, the headstone...

It was so heavy, so... final. The expression _set in stone _came to mind. Her name, her dates were carved into it. Beginning and end. Start and termination. Her cycle was over, done, complete. _Cut off. By me. _

A bird trilled from one of the gorgeous, sun-dappled trees overhead, and John felt anger boiling inside him. Why was the world so cheerful when he was such a wreck? As if to spite him farther, the light, bubbly laugh of a young girl leaked through the cemetery gates, along with the smooth creaking of bicycle wheels. Some kid was having fun, actually having _fun. _Nothing had changed for her recently. He life was as steady and happy as the path of her bike. She didn't know pain...

_Didn't know pain._

_He _hadn't known pain, not for a long time. He'd thought he had. Hell, he had almost lost his _own _life. He couldn't quite imagine anything much worse than that. But this was agonizing. Really and truly agonizing. It would have been better to be shot a thousand times than to experience this, be living this nightmare out of which there was no escape, no waking. He was trapped.

It seemed to take hours for the whole thing to finish. Maybe it did. And even after it was officially over, relatives and friends mulled around, consoling one another, paying their respects... no one approached him. They all knew of him, of course, knew that he'd been the one to find _her _body- he could tell by some of their glares that they didn't suspect it to be a coincidence- and yet he'd never actually met any of them. And they weren't ready to make that connection now, apparently.

_Just go home. Go home, _he told himself insistently, but couldn't make himself rise from the chair. He was paralyzed with pain. Slowly, everyone else cleared out, until finally he was left alone with the gravestone.

Now his legs were moving, lifting him, carrying him to the stone tablet. He stood in front of it for a moment, willing tears to come, just something to leave a physical imprint of this pain on his body. But there was nothing. Just that horrible void inside of him. The letters were burned into his vision. SARAH SAWYER. _She's dead, and it's my fault._

"I'm sorry," he said simply, then turned and left the cemetery.


	5. 5

**A/N** _So, this is my least favorite chapter of the lot, but the second half of the story starts after this, and I like it a lot more than the first, so yes.^^ If you bear with me here, you can reach the bits that I actually like, and then we'll all be happy, right? :D As always, reviewed are greatly appreciated! _

**Thanks to** _NerdiePie_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

><p>[<em>510_]

Sherlock's phone was ringing.

He hesitated, hand hovering over the device, wondering whether he ought to ignore it. Anyone who knew him well enough to have something important to say, after all, would know that texting was his much preferred method of communication. Well, unless it was urgent. His eyes flickered over the caller ID number. Lestrade. Well... it _could _be something. Half-reluctantly, he brought it to his ear.

"What?"

"I need to ask you a favor."

He settled farther back into his chair, legs stretching out in front of him as he laced his fingers together, holding the phone in place with his shoulders. "A favor," he repeated monotonously, watching light patterns from the windows dance over the fabric of John's empty chair.

"Yes, and please take me seriously here. My wife- okay- she's decided that she has to have some sort of dinner party tonight, and has demanded that I invite my 'friends from work.' Everyone's busy, so I was wondering if-"

"No." The very idea was ridiculous, Sherlock thought, annoyed. Lestrade had called him to invite him to a _dinner party? _How could he possibly imagine that such an invitation would be accepted?

"_Please, _Sherlock."

The DI was begging, which Sherlock found rather amusing in and of itself. "Why should I?"

"Because- think about John," the voice from the other end offered desperately.

"John? John has nothing to do with this. He's at his girlfriend's funeral right now, I doubt he's in the mood for a dinner party."

"It would be good, don't you think? To distract him? He needs to get out more. It'll work out fine, just... please?"

"You want me," Sherlock began slowly, "to bring myself and my depressed flat mate to your place for a _dinner party._"

"Yes, I know it sounds ridiculous, but-"

"He'll be a wreck. You do realize that, right?"

"Are you saying you'll come?"

"Of course not, " he growled.

"I'll- look- there's a case," Lestrade tries, "that I didn't tell you about because I thought it would be below you. Not murder or anything, but to be honest, it has us baffled. And if you're _really _bored, well, I might be willing to tell you if you come along."

"You really are frantic, aren't you?"

"Please, Sherlock. Do it for John?"

"Why would I do it _for _anyone?" he asked disgustedly.

"Well... I just thought..."

Lestrade started babbling about something then, but his earlier words were echoing in Sherlock's mind. _Do if for John. _His flatmate probably _would _like to get out, even if he denied it. Such a venture would be good for him. Maybe... whatever he said, John's wellness _was _a concern for him. Just one little supper... it would be over soon, right? He could probably suffer through it. It would be worth the irritation, if it had the desired effect on John.

_Anything to help him, right?_

"Address?" he cut in.

"I- what?"

"I asked for your _address. _It's not that complicated of a request, you know."

"Right- okay- so... are you saying you'll come?"

"No, I'm asking for your address. Just give it to me already," Sherlock sighed, unwinding his fingers and gripping the phone in his hand again. This call was stretching on a good deal longer than he considered strictly necessary.

The address was provided, as well as a time at which he would be expected to arrive. Lestrade was obviously a bit overeager. He went on to mutter a quick "good," his finger already positioned over the _end call _button.

"So... are you coming or aren't you?"

"We might. Don't get your hopes up, we'll just have to see."

"Can you just give a straight answer for once?"

He considered this for half a moment. "Yes," he finally decided, then pressed down, cutting off the connection.

"We're going to the Lestrades' for supper," Sherlock announced, leaning around the corner of the wall from the kitchen.

John wasn't sure if he'd heard right. It was a typical thing for him to be assaulted with some declaration or other immediately after entering the room, but this was a bit of an extreme. After coming back from a funeral- a _funeral _for his _girlfriend- _he was informed by his sociopath of a flat mate that they were going to a work friend's house for the night. It wasn't a question, not an offer, just a statement of fact.

There had to be _something _illegal about such an infuriating situation.

Of course, even if there was, it wasn't likely to have an effect on Sherlock.

"What makes you say that?" John asked evenly, staying in the doorway rather than making any sort of move towards sitting down. For some odd reason, the words actually came out easier. His mind seemed somewhat clearer of unbearable grief when he was around Sherlock, and the... the funeral had been... closing, in a way. The goal, his goal of moving on seemed much more reachable all of a sudden.

"He called asking if we would come, I said yes. We're going. In an hour. Best start getting ready."

"And it never once occurred to you that maybe I'd disagree."

"Of course not. Why should it?"

It wasn't like John didn't ever refuse to do the things Sherlock insisted he did. He'd ended up staying behind before. Like the time... that...

_Well, everything has a first time, _he thought somewhat indignantly.

Still, he could already tell that this wouldn't be it. Going to the Lestrade house didn't actually sound all that bad, somehow. Oddly enough, the funeral had... refreshed him. He felt better than he had in a good while, perhaps even since before the freezer. And socializing would probably serve to help even more. There really was no reason to say no unless he wanted to be left alone at the flat as it got dark out, left to fend for himself until who knows how late...

"Fine," he grumbled.

"An hour," Sherlock repeated, then returned to the kitchen and whatever bad-smelling experiment was presently housed there.

"Thanks again," was the first thing Lestrade said when the door opened.

Sherlock grunted in response, standing up rather stiffly. He was already regretting the decision to come here, though John beside him seemed enthusiastic enough, as these things went. Just over the DI's shoulder he could see one little toddler, a girl with ridiculously curly hair, peering curiously and almost nervously at him. Children. Of course. Well, it was only to be expected- he knew that Lestrade practically had a zoo running at home- but still. The thought of one of them attempting an abysmal activity such as, say, clinging to his leg made him draw his coat impossibly tighter.

Of course, he had to take it off moments later.

Soon enough, they were seated in the living room, which was covered rather excessively with what he identified as Swedish decor. It was an extremely... _homey _place. Mrs. Lestrade was also pleasant enough, comfortably plump with an embroidered, lace rimmed apron and graying hair held back in a bun. The very image of a bright-cheeked, bustling housewife.

The kids, on the other hand, were a bit... stickier. The five of them, who actually lined up in descending order of height (and presumably age) when introduced had names that Sherlock quickly lost immediate track of, though he was sure he could remember who was who if he tried. There were three girls and two boys, the oldest being fifteen and the youngest four. Mary, Alfrerd, Abby, Thomas, and Dorothy. The whole thing came together as an image of the perfect family, almost too much so for it to seem real. Was this what other people were like? All happy, perfectly aligned...

John looked happy, actually smiling and laughing for the first time that Sherlock could remember since the freezer encounter. It made him feel... well... good, sort of. _Relieved. _Yes, relieved, to know that there was a part of the man he was used to who could still enjoy himself at least somewhat.

He'd still be able to pull through.

Eventually.

Still, one small spark of hope didn't make it any less tedious and, well, painful to sit on the edge of the floral-pattered couch, listening to the tick of the antique clock and wishing that it could just run a little faster. Already, it felt like they had been sitting there for eternity, and food hadn't even been served yet, nor were the hosts making any move towards such an action. Hell, the other three and even the midgets were conversing freely, and he couldn't help but feel like they wouldn't even notice if he were to randomly disappear from the room. Maybe he _could _sneak out somehow. The notion was ridiculous, and he couldn't entertain it realistically, but even he was allowed fantasies.

The cats didn't make things any better.

There were two of them, one calico and one tabby, both with fur that seemed to get absolutely everywhere. Even John, who Sherlock knew not to be much of a cat person, seemed enraptured by the apparently "adorable" creatures. Personally, Sherlock found them unnecessarily mewy and generally irritating, but, well, he'd never liked animals in general all that much. They didn't serve much purpose, or so it seemed to him. Other than generally making things even worse than they already were and getting fur all over his pants. Really, he couldn't bring himself to understand what was so great about the animals.

Dinner couldn't have come soon enough, and when it did, it was something of a relief, to know that time indeed was passing and they weren't simply stuck in some sort of unending loop of kids and cats and too-loud laughter. Sherlock, at this point, felt just about ready to hurl. This familial atmosphere was getting to him. Normally, he'd entertain himself with observing and deducing any sort of secrets hidden among parents and children, but there was, quite literally, _nothing here. _They all seemed to be completely honest with each other, which was near-unbearable.

It would be over soon, though. It would have to be. Or else he might go absolutely insane.

Mrs. Lestrade was a fantastic cook. In fact, the couple- and their offspring- generally seemed to be great people to be around. Sherlock didn't seem to be enjoying himself, but that was only to be expected, of course. John was happy here, actually happy, and that was... well, wonderful. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to smile. But here, surrounded by friendly people, great food, and overall cozy atmosphere, he could get near imagining that nothing had changed between now and two months ago, even get close to comprehending the fact that things could pick up again, that he could return to a... well, _livable _state of life.

It was nice to think that.

But of course things couldn't last.

It started so innocently. Well, he supposed later on, the whole thing was innocent. Almost pathetically so. It was sad, really, that such a lighthearted conversation could turn so sour.

Of all things, they were talking about bacon.

Apparently, Mrs. Lestrade loved it quite a bit. "Makes it every morning," as little Abby declared excitedly. "From the package with the red cow."

_Rows and rows of them, frozen stacks, all with that same image... that red, bright red cow silhouette..._

"I bet it's good," he managed to get out, trying to ignore the sudden awful drop of his stomach. Clearly, the bacon that the girl was talking about had come from the very same Davidston Farms at which had occurred so much... _tragedy _sounded fake, exaggerated. _Misery. Horror. _Yes, horror. At which so much horror had occurred. Absolute, hellish horror.

_Don't think about it. Don't think about it._

"Abby," Lestrade began, a bit of anxiety leaking into his voice. John stared hard at the tablecloth, noting how, when subjected to such intense a look, it seemed almost to undulate before his eyes.

"From some other place now, though. Because the last package Mummy got from the red cow..." The little girl reached over to spoon more potatoes into her bowl, little arm trembling under the weight of the long serving spoon. "It had _blood _on it." Her little nose wrinkled. "Really yucky."


	6. 6

**A/N** _And finally onto the chapters that I'm actually HAPPY with, and which have more than faint glitters of romance. (Chapter 9, guys. I'm telling you. Just hang in there.) Anyways, onwards!_

**Thanks to **_No reviewers last chapter. This time? Please?_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

><p>[<em>610_]

A violent, bitter taste was starting to creep through his mouth, around his tongue, down his throat. Churning in his stomach. To hear those words in such an innocent voice... the tablecloth, dark red, seemed to be burning into his eyes. _It had blood on it. Really yucky. _

_Really yucky._

Out of nowhere, he felt a hand squeezing his forearm, painfully tight, and yet he hardly seemed to feel it. The words were slicing through his mind over and over. _Really yucky, really yucky, really yucky..._

Sherlock's voice managed to find its way into his hearing, dark and quick and insistent. "We have to go. John-" His arm was being pulled on, but he wasn't there, not really. He was in the freezer again, with the cold, the ice, turning a corner, seeing it all over again... it... the _it _which had, at one point, been a _her... _

_It had blood on it. Really yucky._

At some point, through the unbearable cacophony of the words and images suffocating him, he realized that they were outside, the he was stumbling along a sidewalk, that his whole body was shaking. _We can't leave them behind, _he thought vaguely, _can't just... I'll be fine... _but he wasn't fine, wasn't fine at all. It was like the girl, the poor, naive little girl's words had been some sort of trigger for this... what was this? He couldn't think clearly, and kept flickering before the present- dark pavement, a chill to the air, Sherlock still gripping his arm insanely hard- and the freezer- the horrible, garish bloodstains against the pristine perfection of the cold, hard, glittering floor... a mass of frozen, icy hair and a stiff body, cold and dead... the pain, the awful, insanely wicked pain of a hot, sharp bullet tearing through the flesh of his shoulder...

At some point, he felt himself sitting down and realized that they were in a cab, that he was being taken home. _Thank you, _he thought weakly to Sherlock through the mist of agonized memories, _thank you for not making me stay there... _

There was a muttered question from someone who must have been the driver, a growled response that came from where he assumed Sherlock to be, right next to him... the detective didn't sound as though he was in the best of moods, and John felt a twinge of worry that had nothing to do with the recollections flooding his skull. _I don't want to make you upset. Don't be upset for me... _

Then they were out again, outside with the wind whispering past, inside, in the flat, on the stairs, the door was opening and then he could see the familiar living area of 221B through the hazy images of the freezer that seemed permanently superimposed over his eyes.

Now there were two hands gripping his arms, one on each, and he was being forced into a chair, his chair. But even its familiar contours couldn't come anywhere near soothing him. He felt trapped, trapped in something that wasn't even happening.

_Help me. _

"John." Sherlock's voice, cutting through the pain like a sleek knife, getting straight to him, so that, for a moment, reality seemed much more vivid. For a moment, he was able to concentrate on his surroundings, on the man standing before him, staring with a chilling intensity into his eyes, fingers now secured tightly around John's own wrists. "Are you okay? Can you hear me?"

He tried to nod, but wasn't sure whether or not the command went all the way through to his nerves, to his muscles, whether or not the action was actually executed.

_Why can't I stop thinking about it? It feels like it's happening all over again. _

Almost like a response to his thoughts, Sherlock began talking lowly, rapidly. "I haven't seen anything exactly like this before, but I'm sure it's some sort of panic attack. Just- just concentrate on me, all right? Concentrate on my voice. I'm talking to you. You're here, you're in 221B, and whatever you think you're seeing- it's over, now, okay? It's all over. You're imagining it. Just imagining it. That's _not happening. _It's not real. This is here, this is real. Are you listening to me?"

The words were drifting by, and John couldn't quite bring himself to pay all that much attention to them. There were too many, too fast, and the echoes of the part were too strong to resist. His stomach was churning violently, and he realized that he was shaking, shaking rather hard.

"Just relax. Relax. It's not happening. Lean back. _Breathe._"

"I can't," he gasped out. It was the first time that he was actually aware of his own talking, and it was reassuring, somehow, to know that he still had some meager measure of control over himself.

"Yes, you can. Just... slow down. Slow down. Focus. I'm here, I'm right here- _focus!_" The hands were even tighter now, and it suddenly occurred to John that Sherlock actually seemed to be, well, _worried, _almost alarmed... almost... frightened. But, no, that was ridiculous. He was just... but he _was. _The oh-so-cool consulting detective seemed, unbelievably, to be losing control in his... desperation.

_Desperate? Why should he be desperate?_

"Please just focus."

_Please? _The present and the past were already twisted up an absurd amount- maybe he was hearing things now. Because there was no way, no _way _that Sherlock would even sink low enough to _beg, _especially not to him.

"Are you listening to me?" Now the voice was growing angry. "I said that you need to focus! Don't just- you're ignoring me, you idiot-"

He was focusing, through. The words that he heard were clear, the clearest thing that he was aware of at the moment. Clearer than the memories that were obscuring his senses. Clearer than the wobbly images that were all he processed of his actual surroundings.

"I'm not ignoring you," he rasped, breath catching in his throat. His stomach really did feel awful, and he made sure to clamp his mouth shut tightly.

"Then why aren't you-" Sherlock cut himself off, breathing slowly, heavily. "Just... you have to do this. Just relax. Relax for me."

* * *

><p>Some sort of panic attack, indeed. It was probably the most frightening thing Sherlock had ever seen, though, of course, that could have come from the fact that it was happening to John. The blonde doctor was completely rigid, his lungs moving in small, convulsive movements, his eyes distant and his whole body shaking. It was... disconcerting to know that these demons were attacking John from the <em>inside, <em>that there was no way for he, Sherlock, to physically stop them... the only weapons he had were the weak ones that were his words, and that clearly wasn't getting him anywhere.

John had said, though, just now, that he wasn't ignoring him. That was something. "Try," Sherlock demanded. His voice remained firm, but he felt as though his insides were crafted of too-thin glass, shaking under the pressure and ready to shatter at any moment. _Make him- get him to... how? How do I do this? _

"Keep... talking," John whispered.

"What?"

"Your voice- it... helps."

Well, anything that helped was amazing. So he instantly began to speak- about anything, everything, really, that didn't have to do with the freezer, that didn't have to do with Sarah or Moriarty. Instead, he went on about how little he'd had to do lately, and how he'd been managing to occupy his time otherwise. About all the little experiments he'd been carrying out, many of which had let loose quite a stench through the house- he teetered on the brink of actually apologizing for that, then decided not to. That would be such a bizarre thing, coming from him, that it would probably just confuse John yet further. This thought struck him as vaguely amusing, but he shoved down the hint of laughter that tickled his throat, knowing that this was hardly the time for it.

"Lestrade actually told me that he had a case of some sort he'd tell me about if I agreed to take you to that absurd imitation of a dinner party," he continued without skipping a beat, his mind having plotted out any number of subjects that could keep him talking for as long as necessary. "Of course, as you saw, he didn't even approach bringing that up. Might have, I suppose, if we'd stayed longer, but honestly? I was going mad with that place."

"It was nice," John protested, and to Sherlock's relief, his words were a little clearer, his voice a little stronger.

"To you, maybe. But the cats, not to mention the children- absolutely ludicrous. Almost like they were putting on some sort of show for us."

"But they weren't," John murmured. His gaze had shifted down, aiming at the floor rather straight into the air, and his muscles seemed slightly less stiff. "That's how they live. That's... what it's like for them."

Sherlock wasn't sure how to respond to this, but when silence began to fill the flat again dangerously, he blurted out the first thing on his mind.

"Do you wish it was like that for you?"

The silence here was much longer, at least a full minute, but all the time, John seemed to be calming down more and more. His breathing was almost normal now. Finally, he spoke, the words sounding small in the hollowness of the empty room.

"I think... I would've liked it... if it had ended up that way."

_He's putting sentences together, full sentences, _Sherlock noted in the back of his mind. _Good, that's good. Shows that he's regaining more control. _But, even as these positive thoughts came through, he felt a vague unhappiness at the words themselves.

"And it probably would've, with Sarah and me. Honestly, I... thought we had something for a while there. Of course it would be ruined, though."

Sherlock glanced up swiftly at him, concerned about what effect the mention of her might have. But he still seemed quite composed.

"Still, I... I never would've been able to leave this life. This absolutely mad life." He shook his head, and gave a small laugh that sounded more like a choked cough. "And I'm... well... as horrible as I feel about her... I think I'm glad that I didn't leave this. I think I'm glad that..." His eyes suddenly met Sherlock's, and the detective couldn't help the elevation of his heart rate when confronted with the beautiful blue-tinted hazel, staring straight at him. "I think I'm glad that I didn't leave you."

Sherlock truly had nothing to say to that. He looked sideways, in the general direction of the ground, and realized that his breath had stopped completely. Even if he had words to say, he doubted his voice would come. He could hear the pounding of his own heart in his ears, and clenched his hands into loose fists in an attempt to calm himself down. He couldn't handle getting worked up, not now, not when he still had to help John.

But the doctor actually seemed to be handling himself fairly well. He slowly settled back into the chair, letting out a low sigh. "Thank you. For that. I'm sorry that I... lost control there."

"It's not your fault," Sherlock replied automatically.

"Don't be stupid, of course it was my fault." He raised a hand, no longer shaking, and slowly ran it through his own hair. "My bloody fault that I can't even handle a poor kid talking about _bacon..._"

"It's normal," Sherlock replied automatically, even though, from what he'd seen, it was anything but. "She triggered a painful and shocking memory. Nothing you could've done about that."

"Do you really think so?"

"I do."

"Well, then. Thanks for that, I suppose," John muttered. "I'm tired, though, really tired. S'pose this is goodnight."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Sherlock checked warily.

"Yeah, I'm fine now. I'm fine."

"If you're sure," he insisted, backing away from the chair so that his flat mate had room to stand. He was reluctant to let John out of his sight, even in knowing that he could hardly not.

"Positive," the doctor half-yawned, already traipsing out the door. "You should try to sleep, too. That would be good for you, God knows it doesn't happen enough." Then it was shut behind him, and the flat was silent save the hollow, creaking sounds of the stairs as he moved up them, leaving Sherlock behind- the opposite of how things usually worked.

The detective sighed quietly, a short sound that he cut off almost instantly when its volume was magnified by the empty room. He didn't want to hear anything reflecting how he felt internally. It was too painful. Well, not painful, exactly, just... exhausting.

Extremely exhausting.

_Might as well sleep while you can._

Still, it took a long time for him to move from where he stood. John's departure had been... too abrupt, and now he was left feeling as though something was missing, like there was an invisible object he was tied to, keeping him in position, stopping him from moving.

There was nothing, though, of course. Nothing but his own, overly burdened thoughts, which had grown yet heavier and harder to carry over the course of the night. One would think that own confusion might diminish, leaving room for this newly expanded worry, but things weren't as kind as that. Instead, he somehow managed to feel a whole new tangle of upset on top of everything else, even though he was sure that he'd previously been at his maximum.

It wasn't _fair, _caring about people, or even one person. He couldn't control it, couldn't hold it at bay, and that was driving him absolutely mad.

_Would I stop it if I could, though?_

As alarming as it was, he couldn't be sure that he had an answer to that.


	7. 7

**A/N** _Nothing much to say~_

**Thanks to** _IamSHERlocked4ever ^^_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

><p>[<em>710_]

It would be nice if John actually _told _him things once in a while. Didn't he have the right to know when his flat mate's sister was visiting, rather than having it cruelly and unjustly sprung on him in a time when it was the last thing he wanted? Naturally, the doctor insisted that he had, in fact, informed Sherlock of it multiple times, but, well, it was important enough that the detective wouldn't have erased it from his mind- _probably- _so that was impossible. Of course John had to be stubborn enough to deny that he simply failed to spread the time and date of Harry's arrival, though. And now, Sherlock had only- he glanced up at the clock on his dimmed computer screen to check- forty-six minutes until John would be back from the airport, sister in tow. She wasn't staying with them, of course, that would be ridiculous in a flat the size of theirs; but she'd still be nearby, close enough, as John had made sure to remind him forcefully, for daily, _day-long _visits. Apparently, he was expected to maintain an _acceptable manner _for the lot of the time, since this was her first time meeting him and all that. From the comments from her that Sherlock had seen on John's blog, he had a fairly good grasp on her personality and such, and he knew already that it was far from the sort he enjoyed dealing with. She'd definitely be snarky, most likely to the point of arrogance, and almost certainly more than a bit drunk on at least one occasion. John had mentioned something about trying to keep her away from her drinking this time around, but honestly, he doubted that anyone was up to that job. They'd just have to cope with her, intoxicated or otherwise.

Well, _John _would have to deal with her. Sherlock had no plans to get involved with the miniature family reunion himself, and his keeping his distance was probably what Harry would appreciate most, anyways. John would probably keep trying to force them together anyways, though, like magnets of the same polarity. Of course, he'd just have to give up before they repelled each other so violently that something truly damaging happened.

Forty-five minutes.

Unable to stand watching the row of numbers any longer, Sherlock impatiently slammed the lid of the computer shut and flopped back on the couch, raising his slipper-clad feet and balancing them delicately on the end arm. John had threatened—though, if anyone was to ask, he would most certainly insist that it was a mere request—that if Sherlock wasn't dressed by the time he returned, there would be some serious… something. Exactly what that might be, Sherlock neither knew nor cared. He wasn't intimidated—how could he be? Mostly, he was glad that John was feeling well enough to insist on such things. It made him feel better, to think that his flat mate was, well… living life properly again. It was about time, after all.

Slowly, he tilted his head back, letting it rest on the couch arm behind him, and gazed silently at the ceiling. _Forty-three minutes, _his internal clock told him. Forty-three minutes was an irritating amount of time, he decided. It lasted too long to do nothing, and yet was too short to do anything. A small slice out of the day, useless when isolated, like so many things in the world. Nothing in life worked alone. Everything was interconnected, woven into one another, forming a huge web, a single…

He shook his head. Forty-three—no, forty-two, now—minutes weren't enough to let his mind wander, not to a philosophical level. He'd only been moodier upon John's return if he'd worked himself into a truly thoughtful state, and that probably wouldn't help anyone, least of all he himself. The best thing to do was…

_What?_

_Bored, _an all-too-familiar part of his mind whined.

A brief smile crossed his face at the prospect of the expression on John's face if he were to return and find the wall riddled with bullet holes. It would be entertaining, to say the least. For a moment, he almost considered actually doing just that and shooting a month's worth of rent into the innocent, all-too-recently repaired wood... it wouldn't be worth it, though, because John wouldn't just be upset, he'd be... well, just that. Upset. It was odd, like there were two sides to the single emotion. There was the upset John that was a humorous occurrence, an entertaining factor to Sherlock, and there was the upset John that would leave a bad taste in his mouth, regret, pain... _guilt._

_There it is. _

_Stupid _guilt. He hated it, hated it so damn much. What was the point of such an emotion? What... how did it benefit anyone? The answer was that, quite simply, it _didn't. _There was no point whatsoever to the frustrating thing implanted in every human on earth. Once, a long time ago (or so it seemed now), he had thought himself immune to such petty constraints, but now... it was all John's fault. John had changed everything, everything. _Everything. _Not one single aspect of Sherlock's life was left untouched. Things had changed. Changed so... vividly. Not quite painfully, it was just... like the world had been given color suddenly, a whole new depth, another dimension. And it seemed so unnecessary, yet so vital. So...

_No. You're not thinking about all that right now. I thought we already decided that. _

What he needed was something to do, something _physical, _something that would take his mind off of this stupidity. But there was nothing. Nothing that would fill only thirty-seven minutes.

He'd just have to keep waiting. Have one of those mental naps that he did so often, where he let everything subside, riding just under the surface of his consciousness, almost like a meditation of sorts. It was, often, in that sort of state that ideas came to him.. Not that he was expecting any sort of idea this time; there was nothing he was looking for an answer to, not really. Still, maybe he'd be able to brainstorm up an activity that could occupy his time. At the very least, it would stop him from obsessing over... things.

And _things, _even he knew, meant _John._

* * *

><p>John called him just three minutes before his and Harry's arrival.<p>

"You'd better be dressed," his voice snarled from Sherlock's phone, which was on speaker. "She's in a good mood, and I don't want that changing."

"You know," Sherlock replied to the air, "_most _people would take that as an indication to lighten up, not become even more worked up."

"I'm not most people," was the clipped response.

A smirk formed on the detective's face. It felt almost as though they were switching roles. Apparently, having Harry around made John a lot less easygoing. It wasn't all that likable, in Sherlock's opinion, but still interesting, still amusing. "Just calm down," he advised, reaching up a hand and tracing loops through the air with a stray finger.

"Are you dressed, though?"

He wasn't, of course. His nightclothes _were _comfortable, after all, and he didn't quite feel that John had the right to instruct him to change. After all, he hadn't even agreed to having a guest in their _shared_ flat. If John was going to make arrangements without informing him first, he'd have to suffer the consequences. It was only fair, after all.

"I suppose you'll just have to come and see, won't you?"

"Sherlock-"

"Don't want to hear it," he grumbled. "I'll hang up on you if you keep whining at me."

"You're about to anyways, aren't you?" John's voice was weary and resigned. He clearly knew perfectly well that they'd find the detective in his robe and slippers.

"Right on. Your deduction skills must be improving."

"Shut-"

Not even bothering to look over at the phone, Sherlock tapped the _end call _button. He did hate talking to people over the devices. What was the point, when one could simply text? The latter seemed like a much more reasonable option. It required less effort.

_Any time now... _

Moments later, there was a slam as the front door opened and closed, and the shuffling murmurs of more than one body. Harry's voice, though undoubtedly feminine, was actually lower than John's, a bit husky and rough.

_Great. She smokes, too. _

As long as she didn't attempt to inside the flat. That might just be enough to drive Sherlock over the brink to madness. John would probably try to control that particular behavior of hers, as well- with any luck, she'd keep it to where she herself was staying.

No, not luck. He didn't believe in luck.

He slunk into his bedroom just as the stairs began to creak with the sound of feet ascending them, closing the door precisely as the other opened and flopping back onto his bed.

"Sherlock?" John's questioning voice dropped into the air, and he didn't bother to respond. A noisy sigh came from the main room, and a few mumbled, hasty apologies. "I'll just- sorry, here, why don't you... would you like some tea?"

"If it's the best you have to offer," the other voice agreed reluctantly. "This place is a mess, do you realize that?"

"Yeah... here, you can sit down on the couch... I'll be right back." There were some more rustles, the sound of a kettle being set on the stove, then footsteps approaching Sherlock's door. He made sure to be looking at the ceiling when John slipped in, pulling on a vaguely bored expression specially for the doctor's benefit.

"What the hell are you _doing?_" John hissed, shutting the door behind him and standing against it as if to barricade it shut.

"Lying on the bed. Wishing that your precious sister wasn't here right now."

"I thought I told you to get dressed!"

"You did. Didn't feel like it."

"You couldn't just do this one tiny thing for me?"

"It's not _for you,_" Sherlock pointed out, throwing an arm over his eyes. "It's for _her, _and I don't like her, so why should I exhaust my energies in making her happy?"

"You haven't even _met _her!" John exclaimed with a mixture of exasperation and impatience. "Please, she's my sister. Just give her a chance, why don't you?"

Well, at the moment, the only good thing that Sherlock could identify about Harriet Watson was that she was keeping her brother from thinking about Sarah, and that, of course, was one of the best things that a person could do. _Still. _

"...Fine. I'll be out there in five minutes. Now go on and make your guest comfortable, if she can survive the _messiness _of our flat." He flapped his hand in John's general direction.

"You'd better," John grumbled, making no response towards the second thing Sherlock had said. The detective lifted his forearm from his eyes just long enough to see the doctor shaking his head in apparent frustration and slinking out of the door, shutting it behind him a bit more loudly than necessary.

* * *

><p>It was, indeed, exactly five minutes later when Sherlock, now clothed in his usual sleek suit, emerged from the bedroom. His pattern of walking seemed almost as if he didn't want to be noticed- like that was possible. As much as he would have liked to play along and behave as though he and Harry were the only ones in the flat, John hurried over and took hold of Sherlock's arm, pivoting him around to face his sister.<p>

"Harry, Sherlock," John introduced stiffly, "Sherlock, Harry."

"Well," Harry drawled, watching with dark, almost black-brown eyes so unlike John's own. "So here he is, the famous Sherlock Holmes." The corner of her mouth curled up into a narrow smirk. "Bit skinny, aren't you? Oh, well." Ignoring John's half-mouthed protests at her attitude, she straightened up from her slump against the back of the couch, continuing to speak. "You know, my brother here absolutely adores you. Says that the last few months since he moved in here were some of the best of his life, and I'm quoting that."

"Did you enjoy your flight from Reykjavik?" Sherlock questioned in response, seemingly not feeling the need to bother with introductions. "No, apparently not. Only a half hour of sleep at best, and you didn't eat any of the... spaghetti with alfredo sauce that they served. Shame. I don't blame you, though, that air food really is awful. Let's see... oh, you did go for the breakfast, though. It is hard to go wrong with a blueberry muffin. And... a bag was lost in the transition from New York to Reykjavik. Don't expect to be supplied with replacement luggage, the airline that you flew with is really awful about that sort of thing."

"Just as impressive as I've heard," Harry purred, seemingly unfazed. John gritted his teeth, eyes flickering between the casual-looking woman and the icy man. "Oh, I can tell we're going to get along well. Very well, indeed." No one could have missed the thick layer of sarcasm distorting her tones. "And don't bother to explain how you knew all of that- though it was entirely accurate, of course. I really don't have a taste for show-offs."

"Could you just _try _to get along?" John offered half-meekly, abandoning all pretense. "I mean... this doesn't have to be totally hellish..."

"But it's going to be no matter what," Harry pointed out amusedly, running a hand through her sandy, shoulder-length hair. "Might as well acknowledge that early on. I came here for _you, _not Mr. Cold here. He's just going to have to suffer the consequences."

"It _is _my flat," Sherlock growled, his voice low and irritated.

"That it is, Holmes," Harry laughed. "But I'm afraid that I'm a guest, darling, and that means that you have no choice but to behave in a way that benefits me. See, manners aren't really optional in today's society."

"They are for me," Sherlock retorted.

"Oh, I can't wait to see you fulfill that little declaration."

Undoubtedly, these few days were going to seem endless.


	8. 8

**A/N** _More than anything, this chapter is really just set-up for the next, when (FINALLY) things actually happen ;3 We're nearing the end of this fic, and I'm hoping to gather a few more reviews before it's over, so even if you have commented on a previous chapter, another one here would be much appreciated ^^_

**Thanks to** _Vamsi_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

><p>[<em>810_]

As guilty as it probably ought to have made him feel, it was indeed a relief when the time came for Harry to be on her way. Apparently, she hadn't yet broken her vacationing streak, and was next headed for Brazil. John wasn't sure how to react when she cheerily announced that she fancied herself a 'bit of a traveler these days,' and chose to respond with not-entirely-faux enthusiasm when he delivered her to the airport. She left with a bit of a prance in her step, boarding the plane with such an exotic destination in mind, and he couldn't help but wish briefly that her visits could be enjoyed rather than just tolerated. It would be nice if the two of them could get along a bit better, but he supposed they were just too different from one another.

Funnily enough, Sherlock absolutely _detested _Harry- or so it seemed- and the two of them, in fact, were much more similar than either would care to admit or, probably, even notice. Their attitudes were practically polar opposites, yes, but their negative qualities were nearly identical. Stuck up, selfish, sarcastic and condescending... how was it that the people John tended to grow close to were such utter _jerks?_

This thought kept him amused on the way home, right up to when he walked in the door- at that point, it completely evaporated. Though Sherlock wasn't shooting any walls, there was a new 'hobby' that he seemed to have picked up.

"Isn't there some sort of rule against having an open flame in a flat this crowded?" John suggested meekly, unwilling to take another step into the room.

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock replied with a snort, not looking up from the huge burner he had positioned haphazardly on the desk. "There's a fireplace right there, and a stove in the kitchen."

"I can see you're not using either of them."

The detective looked up finally. He wasn't wearing any semblance of goggles or the like to protect himself from the furnace-like heat that John could feel from across the room, but didn't seem to be burned at all. On the contrary, he appeared quite normal, and the doctor would never have expected anything out of the ordinary to be occurring except for, well... the flames dancing eight inches into the air.

"Please, John, I needed something that I could work at from all angles. And before you ask why I didn't do it in the kitchen," he continued, "the table there is far too cluttered. It is nice to have a somewhat bare surface to work on."

"And what kind of marks are you going to be leaving on it? You do realize that's _wood, _don't you?"

"Of course I do. I'm not _stupid._"

John bit back the _could've fooled me _that lingered on the tip of his tongue, instead warily approaching the center of the room. "What are you, er... burning, anyways?"

"I'm not burning anything. I'm checking how well the smoke detectors work. I must say, they seem rather inefficient."

"Ha, ha," John muttered bitterly. "Really, though. Is there any particular reason why you chose to put a... big fire in the middle of the desk? Gone pyro?"

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. "In fact, I'm testing flammability. These so-called _fireproof _materials don't seem to last more than twenty seconds when exposed to open flame, which is, of course, a bit of a concern for someone trapped in a burning house. I thought I might lend the clothing industry a hand... of course, it looks like they really have been trying their best. None of the materials I've concocted here are any more efficient..." He almost absentmindedly brushed away a pile of what seemed to be small fabric squares, so that they fluttered through the air and coasted to the ground, then sighed, rose, and stalked over to the couch, which he collapsed back onto, ignoring the heavy bounce of the cushions.

John practically ran over to the burner, hands shaking as he turned off the gas and, for good measure, yanked the cord out of its socket. Scraps of charred fabric lay in a glass dish next to it, presumably the not-so-lucky victims of Sherlock's little experiment.

"What were you _thinking?_" he hissed, turning to glare at his flat mate, who was now sprawled across the couch, looking more than a little disinterested. "You could have burned the flat down!"

"She survived Moriarty's explosion. She would have been fine," the other replied grouchily, raising a hand to slap the wall. It might have been a fond gesture, but John got the idea that Sherlock was more likely to be attempting to cause the building pain.

"She would've," he agreed with true appreciation in his voice, glancing around at the walls, the familiar cluttered surfaces, the two chairs positioned in front of the fireplace and the television. He really did like 221B- he wasn't sure when exactly it had happened, but it truly did seem to have become a home to him, more so than anywhere he'd lived before. There was a certain... atmosphere to the little flat that couldn't really be recaptured. Though, he admitted to himself, that feeling probably had less to do with his actual surroundings, and more with the person he shared them with.

As _absolutely infuriating _as he could be.

"Where did you get that... burner thing, anyway?" he asked, not letting the subject be changed quite so easily. Walking in to Sherlock burning piles of cloth wasn't something he wanted to send down the 'forgive and forget' path too quickly.

"Work," was the only reply.

Well, that could have meant any number of places. Sherlock's _work _was with him wherever he went, after all.

"Work," John repeated. "...Should I not ask?"

"That would probably be best, yes."

He hesitated for a moment, then settled for a simple nod before sinking into his chair. "Well, then. Just promise me that you won't go building any more _bonfires _while I'm out of the house? ...Especially not on wooden surfaces ?"

"I'll give it a try," Sherlock murmured.

"That doesn't sound like a promise."

"It's not."

John couldn't have done anything to stop the smile that spread across his face then. It was just... so _Sherlock, _and anything Sherlock was, well, brilliant. The up side of Harry's visit had been that, now, he was feeling much better about Sarah. She seemed almost like part of a separate lifetime now, a separate _him- _as though there was the Sherlock John and the Sarah John, and their lives had only intersected for a brief while before going on their own individual ways once more. As odd as it was, he'd been toying- not seriously, just half-jokingly- with the idea of alternate realities. Probably sparked from watching too much Doctor Who. Still, telling himself that there was a version of this life in which she was still alive and well did wonders to make him feel better.

_Of course. You use a fictional concept to reassure yourself about your dead girlfriend. John Watson, the sci-fi geek. _

That was easier to think about, now, as well- _dead. _The fact that Sarah was, in fact, _dead _wasn't too overwhelming, because it only emphasized the fact that the rest of the world was alive.

Sherlock was alive.

And that- _that _was absolutely fantastic. If he had been the one to die- that utterly brilliant man- John honestly didn't know if he would have survived it. It would have shattered everything, in a far less repairable way. Because while Sarah had been his, well, his romantic interest, their relationship hadn't really gone beyond that.

Sherlock, on the other hand... he was John's _life. _Everything seemed to revolve around him, like the earth around the sun- _though he doesn't even know about that... _Sarah's death was like the moon disappearing. It was disconcerting, unsettling, a huge light having suddenly gone dark, leaving him to long, dark, lonely nights.

But if the _sun _had vanished...

Well, John would be blind without the sun.

_Stop it, _he chided himself, heaving a small sigh. _You're making this sound like a badly written romance novel. Your life is no book. _

_It's no romance, either. Not anymore. _

Why did that last thought feel so... _wrong?_

That was when the first thoughts started materializing.

_No. _No. _There's no way- of course not. Not _him. His stomach was churning at the very idea-

_Though it wasn't necessarily a _bad _type of churn- _

Oh, no. Oh, God, _no. _That... how did that even... _I'm straight, _he repeatedly told himself, as though _that _was the most ridiculous thing about the situation. Of course, he didn't see Sherlock as a man so much as a... well, a... person, he supposed. A person, with a spirit, with all manner of spectacular talents and quirks and...

_Dear _God.

_Just because he's your friend, _he told himself furiously, _that- that means nothing else. Nothing else at all. Why can't two men just have a platonic relationship these days? They can. Of course they can. You're being ridiculous. It's just exhaustion- dealing with Harry does that. Nothing else is going on. Nothing, nothing, nothing. _

_Nothing. _

With that, he shoved the very prospect to the back of his mind, where it lurked in shadowed seclusion, still not entirely dismissed.

* * *

><p><em>You have to tell him eventually. <em>

_But that's not necessarily true, _Sherlock thought to himself. _There's no reason why I should have to, none at all. Why can't it just stay a secret? _

There _was _a reason, and he knew it. If he didn't tell John eventually what he had said in the freezer, then Moriarty would. Sherlock didn't know when or how, but he was positive it would happen. Whether with intentions of casting them farther apart (to induce weakness) or shoving them closer together (for amusement), the psychopath was sure to reveal Sherlock's thoughtless, stupid declaration at _some _point or other.

_And John would rather hear it from you than from him. _

_I could always deny it..._

_Don't be stupid, he probably has it on tape or something. _

That was most likely true.

But _still. _Why did it have to be so hard, so impossibly hard, to even comprehend going through such an action? Because it _was. _Sherlock didn't know how he could tell him, or when, or what sort of excuse he could possibly conjure up for saying it at all... it wasn't something that John would want to hear. He knew that. But... he had to get it out. He _had _to.

_Eventually. _

And yet he knew that the longer he put it off, the harder it would become. _Oh, John, by the way. Remember that walk-in freezer that we were stuck in half a decade ago? Well, I never told you, but when you were unconscious from being shot, I actually told Moriarty that I was in love with you! Isn't that just brilliant? Shall we throw a party? _

Damn it.

He'd just have to resign himself to telling John at a certain point, sooner rather than later. _Just get it out. _The quicker he'd said it, the quicker it would be forgotten.

_As if he'd ever forget something like that. _

Well, perhaps not _forget, _then, but at least... well... dismiss? Accept? _Respond to? _No, _that _was one thing that was never going to happen. He was sure of that. John was... well... not accessible.

_And what makes him that way?_

_He's not interested. Not in me. That would be utterly ridiculous. He's shown from the start that something like that, a... _romantic _relationship would never come anywhere near working. So just... just forget it. No, don't forget it. Finish it. End it. Tell him that you said it, but that you're... over him now. _The phrases- _romantic, over him- _grated in Sherlock's mind, painful cliches that seemed to make the whole ordeal a thousand times shallower than he thought it to be. Things weren't getting anywhere like this. He just wanted it to be over. Wished it had never happened, he'd never said that stupid, stupid thing...

And yet...

If it was all gone...

There would be something _lacking. _This new dimension that John had brought to his life... he didn't want, couldn't stand for it to be cut out again. The only thing that was keeping him moving forward was the hope, the feeling that he got every time he looked in John's direction, the fantastical hope that maybe, someday, somehow...

But that day, that _how, _would never come... unless he took the reins and, well, said- admitted- told John that he... that he'd said... it.

_Tomorrow. _

The determination was suddenly there, solid and blazing, steely and irrevocable.

_I'm going to tell him tomorrow. _


	9. 9

**A/N** _AHAHA. AT LAST, THE LONG-AWAITED CHAPTER COMES. Ahem. I suppose this is the climax of this little journey of fluffy angst, so I won't keep you with the AN. But allow me to say, thank you so much, reviewers! Last chapter had the most comments yet. Keep it up! :D_

**Thanks to** _DespisedByThePluralOfMoose (LOVE your username ;D), Call me Mad, Johnlockian, IamSHERlocked4ever, and Sherwhotalian_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

><p>[<em>910_]

John didn't want to get up that morning. It was, after all, a Saturday, and there was really nothing at all that demanded his attention, so what was the point of rising from bed? He was _tired. _It couldn't be that much of a crime to laze for another hour... or two... or three.

The sunlight, however, seemed to be feeling particularly unkind this particular morning, as it slanted rather mercilessly though the gaps between the edges of the window and its curtain. _I'll have to buy something that actually covers the damn thing up, _John thought dully, halfheartedly pulling his blanket up to his forehead. It was suffocating, though, and soon he had to once more emerge for air. A gritty taste was filling his mouth, and his stomach had a vague hollowness to it- the beginnings of the negative effects that came with sleeping in late, undoubtedly. And it was only about half an hour past his usual rising time. Any later would probably result in day-long crabbiness.

With a sigh, he forced himself to straighten up and run a hand through his mussed-up hair. His shoulder gave a slight twinge at the small exertion, and he let out a low groan, forcing himself not to flop back down but instead to pull himself out from under the covers, wincing at the chill of fresh air. The day felt fairly open, for the most part... maybe he could finally get that grocery shopping done that he intended to. It would also be potentially nice to head down to a park and walk around for a bit, stretch his legs... maybe Sherlock would even come with him, if he suggested there just may be some sort of murder there. It wouldn't be a lie; there were always possibilities, no?

A humorous smile tinged his lips at the knowledge that he'd have to go to such measures just in order to request his flat mate go for a stroll with him. _Most people wouldn't need the promise of homicide. _Of course... Sherlock was probably the farthest thing from _most people _that there was.

* * *

><p>Well, whether or not he was usually, the detective was currently in an extremely commonplace situation- frantic indecision. <em>You said you'd do it, <em>he reminded himself angrily. _You promised that you would today- putting it off will only make it harder, just do it, just do it... _the prospect of holding back, of keeping his confession a secret, was so _tempting, _though. Just imagining such caused him to relax a bit more, though such a sensation instantly dissipated when he was brought back to reality.

_Come on, what's the worst that could happen?_

_He could be alarmed enough to move out. _

If _that _happened, Sherlock, quite simply, didn't know what he'd be able to do. _I can't lose him. _But John wouldn't do something like that. Would he? No, no way. He would stay, however awkwardly. He _had _to.

But his resolve was slipping more and more as the minutes slipped by. Why did John have to choose today to be out of bed late? It made everything a thousand times harder, the difficulty of his intended action increasing exponentially with each passing minute until it seemed to be a near impossibility.

_You're just going to have to do it. You're just going to have to say the words. _

_I don't _want _to. _

_That doesn't matter. _

Fascinating, the concept of his own wants quite simply not mattering. A bit difficult to wrap his mind around, too. He was the center of his own life; shouldn't things revolve around him- like the Earth around the sun or whatever the hell it was that John was always going on about?

_But I'm _not _the center of my own life. _

_Not anymore. _

Somehow, inexplicably, John had become more important than his very self. How did that even work? It didn't make any sense. He was _himself. _He saw from no one else's perspective- his life was centered around _him. _But... it wasn't. Confusion was creeping into his mind like a thick, bitter liquid, and he distracted it by raising a hand silently to a pane of the window he faced, feeling the frosted chill of the approaching winter against the pale skin of his palm. A gust of wind rattled the glass, and people lining the streets grasped at their hats and coats, holding them in place. So many men and women, each with minds full to the brim of hopes, intentions, worries, lies, secrets... each was a world unto themselves. Did they have people that they loved? If so, did they realize it? Did they realize it as vividly as he-

A creaking of stairs warned him of John's approach, and he stepped back from the window, turning just in time to meet the sleepy-eyed gaze of the former army doctor. He had his bathrobe on and walked with a slight limp, reflecting his exhaustion- when he was only half-awake, he still favored his "uninjured" leg out of habit, though it was no longer remotely necessary. Sherlock suddenly felt overdressed, not being in his night clothes- though it _was _nearly eight o' clock, after all. Any reasonable person would be up and donning a proper outfit, surely.

"Morning," John mumbled, making his way to the kitchen, where he opened the cupboard door and reached in almost thoughtlessly for a cup and a teabag.

Sherlock nodded mutely in response, knowing that the action wouldn't be seen by the man who had his back turned to him. The detective's heart was beating unreasonably fast, and it took him a moment to realize that every muscle in his body was incredibly stiff- he didn't even bother trying to relax them. Such an action would surely be a futile effort. Instead, he forced his lips to frame words, just getting them out, as quickly as he could.

"I have something to tell you."

"Hm?" John, apparently sensing some of the tension in Sherlock's voice, glanced over his shoulder concernedly. "You all right?"

"Fine."

"All right, then. Is this a _long _thing you have to say?"

"I suppose so. Why?"

"Just let me get something to drink first." He filled the teakettle absentmindedly and set it on the stove top, flicking on the burner and settling down into a chair at the table. "I can't think properly this early in the morning," he added as a sort of explanation, then reached across the cluttered surface of the table and retrieved a newspaper, shaking it out. It was covered with multiple pale brown semi-circles where mugs of tea had been set on it, but he didn't seem to notice or care.

Sherlock nodded, once more to himself, and glanced around the flat for a few moments. He took a step and a half towards his chair and sunk into it, but couldn't bear more than twenty seconds and rose again. A hand unwillingly rose to his head, slim fingers running distractedly through the silky mass of hair.

"Are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

John's voice startled him somehow, and he flinched slightly, then hastily nodded. "Of course."

"Something's obviously getting to you."

"So? It's not your problem." The retort came out rather snappishly, and Sherlock instantly wished that he could take it back. He didn't want the atmosphere to be tense- at least not for John, seeing as, on his own, that was pretty much unavoidable at this point.

"Well, excuse me," was the grumbled response, cut in two as the kettle began to whistle piercingly. A few thumps and rustles came from the kitchen, the direction of which Sherlock refused to look in, and then the _plunk _and _plop _that came with setting down a cup of hot water and throwing in a teabag, respectively. The next couple of minutes were painfully long, as he waited for John to ever-so-slowly let the herbs seep into the water, then add a small amount of cream and, finally, sit down properly, brushing aside the newspaper.

"All right, then, let's hear what's on your mind."

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked over towards John, taking hesitant, shaky steps in the direction of the table and stopping a few feet away. His fingers were obsessively clenching and unclenching, and he didn't think he could stop the restless action if he tried.

_Just say it. _

Then words were coming out in his voice, half-unwillingly.

"In the freezer... something happened there... I said something to Moriarty that I haven't told you yet. That I... well... haven't told anyone."

Seeming to sense the serious tone of Sherlock's voice, John looked up from his tea mug, concern bright in his blue-hazel eyes. "You... didn't say anything that made him angry, did you?" he questioned worriedly. "Nothing that'll mean he comes after us?"

Sherlock's head was already moving back and forth, in a shake, a negative response. "No... well... not in a bad way, exactly-" He didn't understand how he was even supposed to begin to communicate the multitude of emotional layers that surrounded the event, not to mention all those that had built up around it since its actual occurrence.

"Sherlock, is Moriarty coming or isn't he?"

"He's not. He's definitely not coming."

"Well, good." John's eyes flickered down almost embarrassedly to the table and he swallowed a rather large mouthful of his drink, lips pressing together as it burned its way down his throat. "I... I'm sorry, but just the thought of him... it's, well, sickening, you know?" His gaze flitted up to meet Sherlock's, searching for confirmation.

"I do know," the detective acknowledged. _Though I'm sure the whole experience is a lot more painful to you. _He could see the pain, too, see it in everything about John, his eyes, face, posture. The pain was a part of him now, one that would, most likely, never go away. He hadn't gotten rid of it, only grown used to it.

_I'm sorry, _Sherlock thought- _I'm so sorry that I dragged you into this, that you got hurt because of my stupid problems... _

But that wasn't what he had to say right now, as much as he wanted John to know it. Something else, something so much more important, was taking control at the moment.

"I... didn't want to have to tell you this... but if I don't, he will, and, well, that'll just make things even harder. This is _pathetic,_" he added, frustration at himself building in his chest. "I shouldn't be... struggling with this, I-" He cut off his words before they could do any more damage. Already, everything that possibly could go wrong seemed to be doing so, and yet he had dug himself into a pit- there was no way to retreat, not now. He had started this little speech, and that meant that he had to finish it. If nothing else, it was a promise to himself- to back out now would be a cheat, not to mention it would concern John quite a bit.

The doctor set down his tea quietly, standing and taking a step towards Sherlock so that they were only half a meter away from each other. "Tell me what's wrong," he insisted. "Please. I want to know what's troubling you. What did you tell him? What did you say to Moriarty?"

"He was going on about how overly protective I was of you," Sherlock mumbled, half to himself. "Teasing me about it... bribing me. Saying how worthless you were... it was making me angry, that's the only reason that I-"

"Sherlock." And John, damn him, _damn him, _was reaching a hand out, touching Sherlock's upper arm in what must have supposed to be some sort of reassurance, but what turned out being only another aspect of stress, so that he was burning with it, wondering frantically if there was any way to escape this before he said the words, before it all shattered.

"He asked me why I cared so much about you. Why you seemed to matter to me when no one else did... no one else at all. Not even myself, not that much..."

"What did you say?"

"I told him that I loved you."

It was shock, shock that was filling those intricate blue-brown eyes, and the pressure on Sherlock's arm loosened for half a moment. He felt as though his insides had been removed, scooped cleanly out, as he waited- just waited for _some _sort of a reaction. Part of him wanted to go on, amend the words that he had just uttered, saying something about, perhaps, how he'd only said them on whim, how he didn't mean them... excuses flew across his mind at twice the speed of his usual thoughts, which was saying quite something. But he put voice to none of them, since doing so would be lying.

_I do, _he thought half-wonderingly, watching as myriad emotions crossed the expression of the man he was facing, like a rolling die, unsure about what number it wanted to land on. _I really, really do love you- if I was ever going to put a definition to love, I suppose this would be it, wouldn't it? Everything about you, John- you're... I don't know what I'd be without you anymore. You're... amazing. You're so amazing. _

"And... was that... true?" the doctor stuttered, looking completely lost.

Moments before, Sherlock would have struggled with the answer to this, but now there was no reason to. "Yes," he said simply. "Absolutely."

There was a strange little half-instant during which a lot of things seemed to happen at once- John's eyes hardened, his stomach tightened, his heart rose all the way to his throat- and then, simultaneously, both of them were reaching out, he was bending down and John tilting his head up, his hands were full of short, sandy blond hair and there were fingers running through his own dark curls, his eyes were closed somehow and there were lips on his- someone else's lips... he felt completely electrified, suspended in a practically magical moment- and, for a moment, just the briefest moment, he _did _believe in magic and all the other ridiculous things that couldn't possibly exist in the world, because it was right here, right now, in this soaring feeling that nothing else could possibly compare to, that lifted and elated every fiber of his being.

It was over quickly, very quickly. He could see John's face again then, and slowly pulled his hands back, breathing heavily, knowing that his face was surely flushed and his eyes most definitely brighter than usual.

"Look," John whispered, the sound barely scratching the flat's muffled silence. "Look outside."

Sherlock did, and what he saw was snow- beautiful, perfect, fluffy white flakes descending from the sky in a celestial dance, glimmering in the morning light, settling into soft carpets lining the road. They danced and twirled in invisible wind, wind that, surely, was icy cold.

But it wasn't cold inside. Despite its empty fireplace, 221B Baker Street had never been more filled with warmth, especially as he turned back to John, a sight that had to be a thousand times more beautiful than anything that winter had to offer him.


	10. 10

**A/N** _And, finally, for the last chapter. A big thank you to every single one who reviewed, alerted, and/or favorited this story. I'd love it if you'd check out some of my other works, but it's perfectly fine if you don't, of course. ^^ Also, for any fans of Doctor Who, I have a massive DW/Sherlock crossover planned (and when I say 'massive,' I mean almost three times as long as this one...), so if you want to put me on author alert, that should be showing up in a couple of months. Other than that, enjoy the chapter, I suppose. It's pretty much an epilogue, but, as ever, reviews would be greatly appreciated! Just three more and it would be in the twenties (which is a lot for me XD)! _

**Thanks to** _Stormflite, Call me Mad, and IamSHERlocked4ever_ _  
><em>

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

><p>[<em>1010_]

The next few days were amazing for John. Things were just... well... it felt like the one thing that had been missing in his life before was now there- very, very much there. It was, quite simply, wonderful. The... relationship... between them, best of all, didn't seem to have changed much at all, and that was what was so great. There was nothing awkward between them, nothing tense. Everything was finally out in the open, and that was a spectacular feeling, really.

_He said he loved me. _

Even if the words hadn't been repeated since then, even if John had never heard them directly, they had still been spoken. He'd still said them.

_He said he loved me. _

Sherlock had said that, said it to Moriarty. What had the psychopath thought? The detective seemed reluctant to discuss the incident farther, which was perfectly fine with John. The little that he'd heard was enough... more than enough.

_He said he loved me._

* * *

><p><em>Glad to hear the good news. Congratulations. -Mycroft <em>

Sherlock didn't know how to interpret the text. He was tempted to chuck the phone across the room just for the joy of hearing it shatter, but that would probably be more expensive than necessary, and John would most likely be frustrated, too. Somehow, the second penalty motivated avoidance more than the first.

_Shut up. I'm not going to ask how you found out. _

He didn't bother to sign the message. His brother wasn't worth the time it would take to type the two little letters.

_Keeping it a secret, then, little brother? _

_Far from it. Just don't feel the need to let anybody know. Hardly anything's even changed. _

_But of course... things were already... a little more than platonic between you two, from what I saw and heard... were they not? _

_Shut up. _

He could practically hear Mycroft's slight laugh from wherever his brother might currently be, and vented his frustration by holding the _end call _button down as hard as he could until the phone's screen dimmed to darkness.

* * *

><p>"This is ridiculous," Sherlock growled, his hands tight fists in his coat pockets. "And completely unnecessary."<p>

"Why's that? Just a couple of days ago you were absolutely desperate for a case. Found other ways to entertain yourself since then?"

His pale eyes flickered in the doctor's direction, cold and a bit alarmed. Was John trying to...? No, of course not. He was just paranoid. Surely the doctor wasn't referring to, well, the one big change that had taken place recently. Was he?

_Quite possibly. _

Luckily, he was spared the discomfort of dwelling on this any longer by heading into the building, trying to look as much like his regular self as he could manage. Was it just him, or were people looking at them as though they were recognizable as a couple? His stomach squirmed self-consciously, while John seemed completely cheerful.

_Dammit, I hate this... _

They made their way effortlessly to the familiar office of the Detective Inspector. John shouldered open the door and practically pranced in, leaning against the desk. Lestrade was leaning back in his chair, phone held between shoulder and ear, looking only seconds away from swinging his feet up onto the work surface. He muttered a few words into the mouthpiece, then took the phone and slammed it against the desk with a sort of fierceness.

"Sorry about that," he muttered, then glanced up. "John, Sherlock, what's up?"

"I just want to apologize," John spoke up immediately, "for the incident a few nights ago. I never properly said sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Lestrade said immediately, straightening up a bit. "Really- _I'm _sorry about Abby, we should have told her about-"

"It's fine... all fine."

The DI's dark eyes flickered back between John and Sherlock almost apprehensively. "Well, then... did you just come to say that, or...? Not that there's anything wrong with it if you did, it's just..." He trailed off.

"No. It's... we have some... news for you." John's voice was much less confident now, and Sherlock felt just about ready to sink into the floor and disappear completely. "Not that- well- we just thought that... er, you might-"

"...It's about time," Lestrade muttered.

Sherlock's eyes darkened. "What?"

"Well, nothing, it's just that..." He shook his head slowly. "We were all waiting for it, as a matter of fact, there was a sort of... _bet _going on-"

"You were _betting,_" Sherlock hissed slowly, "on how long it would take us to get together? _Betting? _And who was involved?"

"Various... people," Lestrade muttered dodgily, then picked up his phone again and dialed a number quickly, holding it to his ear. "Yeah- it's me," he spoke into it. "Come on in, there's something you have to see."

"No," Sherlock growled. "_No. _I'm not going to-"

The door burst open a moment later, and in strutted Sally Donovan. She paused a few feet behind his desk and froze, her eyes roving back and forth between the two standing men. Slowly, a disbelieving grin took shape on her face. "_No,_" she breathed.

"Yes," Lestrade crowed delightedly.

"That's it. John, we're leaving." Sherlock reached out a gloved hand and gripped the doctor's wrist, striding purposefully towards the door.

"Look, they're _holding hands,_" Donovan cooed.

Lestrade snorted with laughter, then threw a hasty "congratulations!" after the two of them as the door slammed shut. John attempted to slant an apologetic glance in the Detective Inspector's direction, to no success.

"That," Sherlock hissed furiously, "was a disaster. No more of that. We're done with this. Done. Completely- and totally-"

"You're like a teenage boy," John noted with amusement, watching the detective's strained face, which shifted to an even grouchier expression at his words.

"Far from it," Sherlock scoffed. "I'm just not interested in this kind of thing. Far too... normal for my taste. Like some telly romance. Pathetic."

"Pathetic?" John repeated in disbelief. "Hardly."

"Please tell me you're being sarcastic."

"But you'd be able to tell if I was, wouldn't you? What with your amazing deduction skills and all that?"

"Oh, please-"

"_No._"

Sherlock froze, slowly turning to look at the man standing a few feet in front of them- his dark hair, almost fish-like face that was currently contorted in an expression that couldn't seem to decide that if it was amused or disgusted, his eyes moving from Sherlock's face to John's to their joined hands, over and over.

"Oh, hello, Anderson," John remarked, clearly fighting to keep laughter out of his voice.

"You two..."

"Us two," Sherlock agreed, his tone dark. "And is that any of your business? No. I'd say it was nice to see you, but... well, I'm afraid that would be a lie, now, wouldn't it?" With that, he half-dragged John from the building.

* * *

><p>THE PERSONAL BLOG OF DR. JOHN H WATSON<p>

25th NOVEMBER

**No Longer Single**

_Well, for those of you who haven't heard yet, Sherlock and I have gotten together. It's great, I feel great about it. He's helped me a lot to get over Sarah's loss, and that's really the best I could be asking for at this point. Please, nobody bother me about this, well, sexuality shift in any crude way; I don't need that. I really don't. Nothing else to say, I suppose, just thought you lot deserved to know. _

**11 Comments**

Oh, way to be blunt.

**Sherlock Holmes **25 November 11:09

Told you it would happen!

**Bill Murray **25 November 11:24

[Comment deleted]

**Harry Watson **25 November 14:05

You know, Harry, you could try saying that in a non-verbally explicit way. Just, you know, a suggestion.

**John Watson **25 November 14:07

But that wouldn't fully communicate how amazed I am! Though I did kind of seeing it coming when I was over... honestly, I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner ;)

**Harry Watson **25 November 14:08

you've got to be kidding yourself. there's no way he'd want you,

**theimprobableone **26 November 8:17

Oh, you again...

**Harry Watson **26 November 9:22

me again

**theimprobableone **26 November 9:24

Congratulations, mate! Great to know that you two are getting on so well.

**Mike Stamford **26 November 18:52

Oh, how wonderful! Though I already knew, of course.

**Marie Turner **27 November 11:46

This is Mrs. Hudson, I'm using Mrs. Turner's computer.

**Marie Turner **27 November 11:46

* * *

><p>"Is this it, then?" John asked quietly.<p>

"What do you mean?"

He glanced over at where Sherlock was, as usual, stretched out on the couch. This time, though, he was flipping through a magazine rather thoughtlessly, his eyes unfocused.

"Is this it? Are we... going out?"

Cringing slightly at the phrase, Sherlock sighed, shrugged, and half-straightened up. "You tell me."

"I'd say we are," John replied with a barely disguised grin. "And I think that, for that reason, we need to... go on a _date._"

"You are _kidding _me," Sherlock growled. "No. _No. _I'll do the whole 'publicly together' thing, but I am not- _not- _going to be seen in a public place being all-"

"Not in a public place," John corrected.

The detective paused mid-rant. "Then where?"

"Right here. Now." He inclined his head towards the television. "I ordered the whole third season of Doctor Who, and I was thinking-"

"Oh, _God._"

"Just an episode?" John half-pleaded.

Sherlock watched him evenly, then sighed. "One episode. I'm giving you _one episode, _and if it's the rubbish I'm expecting-"

"It won't be," John promised immediately, a grin spreading over his face. "Though... I might have to warn you, you won't be able to look away from a statue for weeks..."


End file.
